


Steady Beats the Heart that Bleeds Red

by thestarsandi



Series: this body of mine [1]
Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I promise there's also comfort, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Original Mythology, Psychological Torture, Suicidal Thoughts, Team Awesome (Disney: Tangled), Varian Needs a Hug (Disney), Varian whump, and an eventual happy ending, varian + everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 80,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22852165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsandi/pseuds/thestarsandi
Summary: It was a bright flash of green—a sudden rush of light and overwhelming noise that knocked him off his feet. Heat encompassed him, surrounding him—caressing him—in its sweet embrace, fingers gently stroking his face until the touch turned to claws that raked across his throat, choking him and choking him relentlessly.Then it was silent.And it was dark._______The one where Lance makes a small mistake and Varian pays the price.1/6 UPDATE: chapter one of sequel (Where the Mind Falls) posted!
Relationships: Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider & Varian, Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider/Rapunzel, Lance Strongbow & Varian, Quirin & Varian (Disney), Rapunzel & Varian (Disney)
Series: this body of mine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768225
Comments: 305
Kudos: 617
Collections: Long Fics to Binge





	1. Table of Contents.

**Chapter 1. Table of Contents** (you are here)

**Chapter 2. The darkness calls.**

  * The explosion.
  * Lance races against the clock.



**Chapter 3. It beckons, softly.**

  * What happened to Varian?
  * A son’s father.
  * He emerges from the shadows.



**Chapter 4. “Come with me, my child.”**

  * Varian meets a sinister man.
  * The tricks of Death.



**Chapter 5. Wherever home may be—**

  * Saving Varian.
  * The conversation of two ex-thieves.
  * To stay or to go?



**Chapter 6. —take me home.**

  * Good news.
  * Lance’s trial, Quirin’s verdict.
  * To fight for one’s life.



**Chapter 7. With eyes wide open, my heart beats a bleeding beat.**

  * This mind is not yet free.
  * An unexpected savior.



**Chapter 8. I stand upon a crumbling ledge.**

  * Proclaim me “not guilty!” and rid my hands of blood.
  * Disrupted sleep.
  * Big brother.



**Chapter 9. Beneath my feet, the chasm opens.**

  * Lovers talk.
  * An execution under the moon.
  * Varian and Lance: reunited.



**Chapter 10. And with a push from the raging winds—**

  * Building “Project Obsidian.”
  * The painting.
  * A sundrop’s vow.



**Chapter 11. —into the darkness I fall.**

  * Cassandra’s attack.
  * Varian’s sacrifice.
  * Woes of a father.
  * How to break an alchemist.



**Chapter 12. “Won't you pull me out?”**

  * And he cried out, "I want to live!"
  * The race to Varian.
  * The truth spills out.



**Chapter 13. One last breath before I leave.**

  * Of blacksmiths and legends. 
  * Death: revealed. 
  * One last—



**Chapter 14. Are we destined to burn or will we last the night?**

  * Last stand.
  * A message from the moon. 



**Chapter 15. Hello, my old heart.**

  * Little talks.
  * The beginning of the end.
  * Red.



**Chapter 16. Sequel Information.**

**Chapter 17. _Where the Mind Falls_ ch. 1 posted.**


	2. The Darkness Calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. My first ever story. I've spent years reading on this site, and have been so inspired by other people's love for these fictional worlds—a love strong enough to move them to create their own! I myself have many unfinished stories in both mind and on my computer—but this is the first to be posted and (eventually) finished. 
> 
> I hope you like my tale. I hope it touches you in some way, like how others have touched me.  
> 

_hold on I still want you_  
_hold on I still need you_

_(chord overstreet - hold on)_

It was a bright flash of green—a sudden rush of light and overwhelming noise that knocked him off his feet. Heat encompassed him, surrounding him— _caressing him_ —in its sweet embrace, fingers gently stroking his face until the touch turned to claws that raked across his throat, choking him and choking him relentlessly.

Then it was silent.

And it was dark. 

* * *

As he slowly came to, Lance peeled his head off the tiles of the castle’s roof, blinking rapidly to bring his blurred vision into focus. There was a distinct ringing in his left ear that muffled the noise around him, but he was not entirely deaf to the sounds of hacking behind him as Angry and Catalina coughed up the smoke in their lungs. He quickly scrambled to his feet, rushing to the girls and giving them a thorough scan for injury. 

“Are you girls okay? Can you hear me? Quick, how many fingers am I holding up?” The questions spewed forth from Lance’s mouth as he fought the rising panic, his mind efficiently putting the pieces together of these last few moments. 

They had (foolishly, he might later admit) added extra flynnolium to The Rooster, against Varian’s judgement and without his knowledge, and the entire thing had thus gone up in smoke—and with a rather large _bang_. 

As more and more bits of information made their way into his recollection, Lance was vaguely aware of Angry shoving his hand—dumbly still holding up three fingers—away with a grumbled, “We’re fine,” as his eyes rapidly scanned their surroundings. 

Despite his best efforts, the panic reared its head anew with a vengeance as his gaze finally settled on the crumbled form of Varian lying on his side only feet away from the ruptured machine, unmoving. 

Heart in his throat, Lance called in a grating voice, “Varian?” There was no response. “Varian, are you okay, little man?” 

The directed question drew the attention of the girls, who also turned to peer at their friend. After a moment more, the party of three rose unsteadily to their feet and cautiously made their way to Varian’s unconscious form. 

Lance knelt to Varian’s side, brows furrowing in concern as he observed the kid’s shallow breathing. His eyes were closed, expression lax—as though he were only sleeping. Trembling hands reached down to give his shoulder a nudge, then a shake, but Varian remained oblivious to Lance’s efforts to rouse him. Trying to furiously calm the pounding of his heart, Lance, at last, pulled back on Varian’s shoulder to ease him onto his back, but recoiled with a sharp gasp as though he had been burned. 

There was red—a small, but growing, puddle of blood—glimmering softly in the moonlight around Varian’s head, occasionally strobing green with the reflected image of the still bursting fireworks. It seemed to mock them with a whispered _this is your fault—his blood is on your hands._

Behind him, Angry and Catalina also drew in sharp breaths, eyes widening to the size of saucers with sudden concern that rapidly morphed their hardened features into something softer—something almost fearful. All at once, they resembled the image of the children they truly were.

It was for only a brief second that Lance allowed himself to feel his fear—his utter sense of overwhelming terror and _guilt_ —before his own expression cooled and his spinning head finally steadied. His arms, strong and firm, scooped beneath the kid’s small frame and pulled him off the cold ground and into his warm embrace. He cradled him gently, as though the fragile body could shatter into a million more pieces and it would be _his fault_ —but his eyes were steel, mind clear as he sprang to his feet and hurried towards the doorway without another word. 

Once inside, Lance’s feet carried him as though he were walking on clouds, untouched by gravity and the burdening weight of the situation, and he moved through the castle’s corridors at the speed of light. 

His eyes, as though unable to entirely accept his sudden need for compartmentalization, occasionally turned downward to examine the boy in his arms who had yet to stir. Lance’s throat spasmed, working diligently to swallow the rising bile as Varian’s head lolled limply against his chest, rattling listlessly with every step and turn. 

He did not notice the trail of blood following in their wake. 

Turning a corner, the large man had to slam to a halt as he was met with—and nearly plowed entirely over—Stan and Pete. Their eyes widened comically, hardly able to comprehend the sight of Varian, pale and unconscious, tucked lifelessly against Lance’s chest, the latter’s normally clean beige shirtsleeve turning a startling shade of crimson. 

Not a word had the chance to pass their lips before the larger man was on the move once more, shoving past them and rushing in the direction of the physician’s chambers. Unlike Lance, however, Stan and Pete were not blind to the drops of red spattering the carpet. 

The image was enough to make them sick. 

Mere minutes—though what felt like hours—later, Lance burst through the doors of the infirmary, eyes frantically scouring for the physician, the one person who was, perhaps, Varian’s _only chance_ —. “HELP! Please, I need help!”

Hearing the frantic yells yearning for attention, the physician—Galen—hastened to the doors, steps only catching momentarily in his shock at seeing a child in such a state. Having been appointed as the previous physician’s apprentice some many years back as a young boy, Galen was not inexperienced to the gore and tragedy often brought forth in medicine—quite the opposite, in fact. Still, a child—well, the sight had a cruel bite _every time_. 

“Bring him here, lay him on the bed,” Galen instructed, a stiff edge to his voice as his withered fingers beckoned Lance towards a corner bed hidden behind a privacy screen. “What happened?”

Easing the young alchemist onto the mattress, Lance struggled to find the courage to finally unravel his fingers from Varian’s thin form—as though to release him would be to hand him over to Death itself, that only his firm grip on the still living, still breathing— _still bleeding_ —body is what kept the kid tethered to this earth, and it was his fault they were even here, his fault his fault his—

“There was—was an explosion. And we were—he was—he was knocked out and I couldn't wake him. _I couldn't wake him_. He was standing right next to it when it went off and he took the full brunt of the explosion and now he’s not waking up and—and—” Lance cut himself off with a shuddering breath, eyes screwing up in an almost pained expression. 

Fortunately, Galen seemed to understand the gist of the situation, face stoic and brows furrowed in deep concentration as he examined Varian, pulling open each eyelid and humming in a noncommittal tone, moving with practiced ease. 

Before Lance could ask the hundred questions boiling in his gut with a fire lit by concern and dread and fear, the doors to the infirmary once again swung open with an almighty crash as Angry and Catalina stormed their way into the room, eyes wildly scanning for something, _anything_ that might relieve their own terrors.

The large man immediately was at their side, kneeling to remove any imposition from his height as though he were approaching young baby deer and trying his best not to startle them into fleeing. “Girls, I’m here. I’m here. Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn't even check to be sure you were following me. I was just so caught up in getting Varian here as quickly as I could…”

“Is he here, then? Is he okay?” Angry's dark eyes sought out Lance’s, fear and hope battling on the frontlines, giving way simultaneously to weathered skepticism and naive desire. Her hands were clasped with Catalina’s, both seemingly only just staying upright. 

Lance’s gaze softened. In his rush to correct one error, he had made another, entirely forgetting about his responsibility to the two young girls who were likely deeply shaken by not only the explosion itself but by the aftermath. By seeing a kid—only a few years older than themselves—injured and unresponsive. 

“He’s here. Galen is actually looking him over right now, so you two have nothing to worry about. Everything is gonna turn out just fine, so why don't we get you looked at in the meantime.” And if he was stretching the truth a little, well, it couldn't make anything _worse_ than it already was. 

Varian was out of Lance’s control now. He hated it, but he also accepted it now that his mind had something new to focus on beyond the fear and immense guilt that could, perhaps, double him over if he lingered too long on the image of Varian, bleeding and unconscious, that would be branded on his eyelids for the foreseeable future. 

Leading the two children towards a cot near the door, though still well within earshot of Varian’s hidden location, Lance helped Angry and Catalina onto the bed. It was only as he was reaching for the blanket, intending to drape across their shoulders and return some warmth to this dreadfully chilling evening, that he finally noticed _it_. 

Blood—thick and dark—was smeared across his palms, soaked into his right sleeve. How did he not notice it before? How was there _so much of it_? His brain spluttered to a stop, thoughts swirling rapidly around and around but at the same time so still and frozen in place because _this was Varian’s blood_ and it shouldn't be on him! It should—it should be _inside_ Varian!

Lance stumbled back slightly, crimson hands rising to display their deadly sins to the air, to the stars. They reached for his shirt, desperately craving a clean surface to rid themselves of this treacherous liquid and of this sickening sight. They were met with more blood, staining the front of his shirt, visible just adjacent to his normally deep red vest (and if this is not the last time he wears such colors again). 

His knees trembled, eyes glued to the sight and unable to peel away, ears deaf to Catalina’s concerned calls. The world was spinning and the blood—his own blood—was roaring in his ears, a rising crescendo of waves raging and crashing against his skull. His knees were trembling and his hands were trembling and the world was turning dark at the edges—

A soft, but firm hand gripped his wrists, startling Lance from this tormented reverie. The dark man slowly lifted his gaze with, perhaps, more effort than he would care to admit to meet the steady, cobalt blue eyes of Lenna—Galen’s apprentice. “Go wash up. I’ll take care of them.” Her voice was strong, yet delicate—wholly understanding of the fragility of the situation and the need to be both sympathetic and decisive. A guiding light in this moment of darkness. 

Lance nodded in appreciation, turning to stumble towards the bathroom. He was vaguely aware of his body’s automated responses that led him in the right direction, but his mind was blank, a vast wall of white nothingness. His hands gripped the rusty faucet as he mechanically pumped water into the basin, red tauntingly smearing the white porcelain. 

His reflection in the mirror was not of easy recognition. Soot was smudged across his cheeks, eyes red from smoke, and the strain to keep his emotions at bay. But the blood—it adorned his clothing and his skin like mere decoration and it was _disgusting_. It was his fault. 

And so, with a vengeance, Lance scrubbed fervently at his hands and arms and chest and face in an attempt to remove these stains and these cruel reminders of his stupidity—of his failure to be the protector he had vowed to be. Poetically, the murky brown-red water swirled out of sight easily but remained in mind regardless. 

With a huff and a final moment to gather his bearings, Lance spun on his heel and marched back towards the door, seeking the strength to await his trial.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad to finally get this out there. After so many scrapped stories that have gone unfinished over the years, fingers crossed that perhaps this will be the catalyst towards future commitment.  
> —Anyway, this month's round of exams are near DONE so hopefully I can really sit down and get this thing finished within the next couple weeks.
> 
> Also, yeah I ended up throwing out Lance's hearing loss in this because it just really didn't work well with where I took this story. I tried to acknowledge a greatly reduced version of it, hence the ringing in the beginning, but it really wasn't the focus here. so. there we go
> 
> Side note: Galen is actually Greek for “healer” and is the name of the second-century physician who formed the basis of medicine. It seemed fitting for the role of the wise, old physician. Plus the name reminds me of Gaius from Merlin—a show and character I am very fond of. Lenna is German for "lion-strong"/"lion-hearted." It felt inspiring, I guess. 
> 
> Double side note: does anyone know what bathrooms would've actually been referred to in this setting? I've tried to research some on medieval castles, but obviously Tangled takes place much later around 18-19th century. Idk. I went with bathroom cause why not. And sinks???
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> Stay tuned!


	3. It beckons, softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so blown away by how well received this was! Thank you all for your kind remarks. Inner 14-year-old-aspiring-author me was so incredibly touched by all this. And now, these years later, to know that something I created and released to the world has had any impact at all brought a genuine smile to my face.  
> 

_And we swore on that night_  
_We’d be friends ‘til we died_

_...I should, but I can’t let you go_

_(coldplay - everglow)_

It was a high—a feeling of magnificent indestructibility. They had won, _again_ , capturing the Baron and setting Brock Thunderstrike on the right path. Perhaps it had not been exactly _easy_ , and perhaps Rapunzel and Eugene each still shuddered at how close they had come to losing one another...but they won. 

And now they had a fine addition to make to the castle dungeons. 

“Eugene…” Rapunzel was hesitant, delicate fingers wringing a few loose strands of her hair. “I—I’m sorry I tried to undermine this whole situation earlier and didn’t consider how you felt about someone stealing your identity.” Her eyes were downcast, lidded heavily with remorse. “I shouldn't have vilified you for still being attached to your past life—I mean that was who you were for a significant amount of time. Of course it would mean something to you. It should mean something. And I know my being the princess can often overshadow you, but I don’t want you to feel unimportant to me or to Corona…”

“Hey, hey sunshine, look at me.” His fingers were gentle as they lifted her chin, turning her eyes until they locked with his. “You have no reason to be sorry. You’ve never made me feel less than I am. In fact, it’s thanks to you that I’m all I am now! I would never change a thing.” Eugene gave her hand a tight squeeze, eyes smiling with a profound love and appreciation. “I shouldn't have let it get to me the way it did—after all, Flynn Rider isn't who I am anymore. And I’m proud of that.”

“I guess..with everything happening with Cassandra, I just—I forgot my responsibility to everyone else. To you. I’m sorry.”

Eugene pulled the princess into a tight embrace, his hand clutching the back of her head in both reassurance and a testament to his unwavering faith in her. 

They pulled apart, sharing one lasting gaze, before they turned to continue the trek back to Corona.

“And for the record, I will always be glad to be ‘ _Rapunzel’s incredibly attractive boyfriend_.’”

* * *

The Kingdom was asleep by the time they entered the village, footsteps echoing in the silence. The glow of the moon lit their way in a ghostly, ethereal path—though Max needed no such guidance, for he knew the streets of Corona better than, perhaps, even like longest-residing citizens. 

It wasn't long ago that the moon brought comfort to Rapunzel—a radiant counterpart to the sun, to _her_ , that could pierce her soul and dissolve her fears.

Now the moon only brought painful memories—of a friend—of betrayal. 

The group ascended the steps of the castle in silence, save for the occasional grunt emitted by the Baron as he was jostled by Max’s not-so-cautious movements, and eased into the corridors. The occasional echo of a voice far off could be heard from castle staff as they worked diligently into the night. 

Reaching the stairwell that would descend into the, admittedly, cold and damp castle dungeons, Rapunzel grasped Eugene’s wrist, bidding him a brief farewell while he locked up their newest prisoner. 

“I’m going to return _this_ to its right place, and maybe then you and I can check out the Rooster’s progress?” Rapunzel twirled her crown in her fingers, an easy smirk playing on her lips. 

“Until then, m’lady.” Eugene gave an exaggerated bow, planting a kiss to the back of her hand (and decidedly ignoring the contemptuous scowl from the Baron). 

After her own detour to the kitchens with the intent to grab varying snacks, knowing that Varian, especially, would have been too entranced in his invention to bother eating—a habit they all have been trying to break him of—Rapunzel reconvened with Eugene to meet up with their friends. 

It was only a few steps later, however, that the sound of hurried footsteps reverberated through the halls. At the breathless shout of “your highness!” from behind, they spun to find Stan and Pete, faces flushed with exertion and...panic? as they rushed towards them.

The guards soon were within an arm’s length, at which point they skidded to a halt, doubling over to catch their breaths. 

“Your highness...there’s been...an emergency,” Pete spoke in a gasping tone, chest heaving with its inability to retain air. “You need to go to the physician’s chambers right away.” He gave no indication of what would cause such a stir, but his eyes held a pained look. 

Eugene immediately stiffened, head swimming with all the possibilities that could warrant such an alarm that would require their presence. “What’s going on? Is someone hurt?”

A brief glance was shared between the guards, an unspoken conversation passing back and forth in the span of milliseconds. Their silence spoke volumes. When Stan at last opened his mouth, he was hesitant, appearing to consider each word that rested on his tongue with the utmost scrutiny before determining their value—and potential for harm. “It’s just important that you get there immediately. It’s best you see for yourself.” 

As if those words could accomplish anything other than sucking all the air from their lungs as Rapunzel and Eugene’s hearts spiked in sudden anxiety and _fear_ , their mouths overcome with the bitter aftertaste of something being so horribly _wrong_.

* * *

It was for the third time that night that the doors to the physician’s chambers were thrust open with a force much greater than was required. The hinges groaned obscenely in protest while the walls let loose a silent yelp in response to the brass door handles slicing into their papery skin. 

Rapunzel’s face was of an unnatural pallor, born from fear and concern for the mystery awaiting them within this room. Her brows were knitted in distress, teeth worrying her bottom lip. 

A quick scan of the room revealed Angry and Catalina sitting side by side on one cot, a throw blanket wrapped around their shoulders, gripped in their small hands, as though seeking some remblance of comfort in the tense atmosphere.

Lance was across from them, slouched in a chair and head in his hands. He wore a simple ivory shirt, haphazardly thrown on with the sleeves messily rolled up, while a bandage adorned his forearm. 

At the sound of their rather explosive entrance, Lance’s head shot up briefly, but, especially upon recognizing exactly who had entered the infirmary, his gaze rapidly sought out his own two feet. He could not find the courage to look them in the eye. Oh how wretchedly _disappointed_ in him they would be. Perhaps _angry_. 

Rapunzel was quick to respond to the scene, moving towards the girls, while Eugene approached his best friend. He laid his hand on Lance’s shoulder, hoping to elicit a response, but when none came, he crouched to peer into the face he knew so well. Instead of the typical carefree smile, however, he was met with a tormented grimace. 

“Lance, what’s going on? Is everything okay?” Eugene spoke softly, but his words only seemed to spook the wounded animal residing in the ex-theif, who turned his head further inward. 

After reassuring herself that the girls were unharmed, Rapunzel twisted her head around the room, meticulously examining every crack and crevice as her brows tightened in new concern and confusion. “Where’s Varian?”

At last, unable to stand the unbearable pressure of the fist clenching around his lungs, Lance’s hands twisted into fists at the side of his head, his shoulders shaking, “I—its all my fault!”

The sudden outburst shattered the suffocating silence, shards of feigned composure falling to pieces all around them, but, still, Lance went on, “I—he said not to touch anything—not to add more flynnolium c-cause its st-strong, but I didn't listen!”

Rapunzel quickly dashed to his side, setting her hands on both his shoulders and speaking to him with a gentle, yet firm intonation. “Lance, just take a deep breath! Calm down.” After a momentary reprieve as his expression unfurled and his hands stilled, she lifted his chin to peer into his face. “Now tell us what happened? Is Varian okay?”

Lance closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. “He—he lit the match and dropped it in the flynnolium to test the machine, b-but I didn't tell him I had added more, th-thinking it would be fine! But—but then i-it exploded! A-and he was standing right next to it! And—and—”

Quickly drawing Lance into his side, Eugene offered what little comfort he could—admittedly minuscule in such circumstances—, but the larger man was shaking terribly and struggling to regain control of his breathing. A thin tear dripped down his cheek unchecked.

Catalina spoke up, quietly but firmly—likely too much in shock to feel, well, _anything_. “When the smoke cleared, we were all pretty disoriented, the blast having knocked us off our feet. Lance helped us up, checking to make sure we were okay. Which we were, just...a little shaken, I guess. But...Varian—” 

At the extended pause, Rapunzel moved back to the girls, grabbing ahold of Catalina’s hand, eyes glistening in the dimming light, mouth tight with worry. “Did something happen to Varian? Catalina, is he okay?”

She looked up into Rapunzel’s eyes, her expression so incredibly unguarded—so _childlike_ , causing the princess to bite back a gasp at the tears now in her eyes. “He—Varian was lying on the ground, b-but he wasn't moving. We tried to wake him up, but—but then he was bleeding! And—and still we couldn't wake him even though we were yelling and shaking him, b-but he—he wouldn't—”

And now, finally seeming to grasp the reality of the situation, Catalina dissolved into tears of her own.

Rapunzel couldn't stop the fearful breath that escaped her at last as the air caught in her throat, her hands flying to her mouth. A glance was shared with Eugene, who was grappling with exactly what they were saying—or perhaps not saying for that matter.

Pushing through the sudden tremor in her voice, Rapunzel directed her question to no one, yet to everyone—to the stale air and empty beds and fluttering hearts, if they were willing to listen and respond. Perhaps she didn't want the answer. “Is...is he—” but, _no_ , she couldn't bear to continue that dark train of thought. There was no way. It just wasn't possible.

Understanding her intention, Lance, having had a moment to compose himself again, quickly reassured her, “He was still breathing when we found him. He—Galen and Lenna are with him now.” Indicating towards the back of the chambers where there stood a door Rapunzel had never gone through, he sighed, “They took him back there a while ago for a more extensive examination.”

Frustration sinking its meaty claws into her chest, Angry, previously so silent, finally let loose a growl. “But he’s been back there for _hours_. How long could it possibly take!” 

Eugene, choosing not to respond with just _how long_ it could take if the injuries were serious enough, leaned into Lance’s side, lowering his voice to an inaudible mumble, “How bad was it?”

Lance’s eyes flickered to meet Eugene’s before moving to stare straight ahead again. At first he didn't answer, seeming to mull over how he could possibly articulate the horror he felt in that moment when his gaze fell on Varian’s unresponsive—and so unfathomably small and thin and _breakable_ —body. And the blood… “ _Bad_ ,” he responded simply. 

And, so, for a brief moment, Eugene morbidly entertained the idea that Galen was taking so long because he was merely waiting to figure out how to tell them all that Varian had died—

A soft squeal of rusted hinges split the air as, at last, the door in question peeled open. Galen, haggard and worn, shuffled towards the group, prompting everyone to jump to their feet with baited breath. As he drew closer, close enough that a thin sheen of sweat was visible along his brow, he feebly waved his hand for them to sit back down. 

Eugene and the girls complied, though Rapunzel and Lance remained standing—too wired by the sudden pounding of their hearts. 

Galen gave a short bow in the direction of the princess and Eugene—now Captain of the Guard, according to the whispered voices of the palace—, “Your highness, Captain—I am pleased to see your safe return to the kingdom.”

Far beyond niceties and pleasant conversation, Rapunzel pulled Galen’s hand into her own, squeezing it, though it was indecipherable whether the action was meant to provide comfort or to receive it. “Galen, please, how is he? Will Varian be alright?” 

Understanding her desire to drop all prefaces, the physician let loose a sigh, his entire body seeming to deflate with the action. “Please, take a seat.” Galen, himself, drew up a nearby chair while Rapunzel and Lance obeyed.

His hands fiddled with his glasses momentarily, pulling them off and wiping the lenses with his shirt. At last, Galen let loose another sigh—this one more troubled, hesitant. “As I am sure you’re aware, the explosion caused some extensive damage to the boy. It was likely unavoidable, given how close in proximity he was to the blast. There was a piece of shrapnel that pierced his right thigh, which was cause for some heavy bleeding. We struggled to get that under control in the beginning, but were able to stitch and wrap it.”

He hesitated again, face pinched. “The boy is incredibly lucky. The metal only just missed severing the femoral artery. A few millimeters to the left and he would have bled out in minutes.”

Gasps echoed off the walls, the invisible soundwaves lamenting a cry of woe that strung a noose around the heart and _pulled_. Rapunzel’s eyes rapidly filled with tears, hands covering her trembling lips, while Eugene bowed his head in remorse and a silent prayer. Lance fisted his hands, nails digging into soft skin, as his mind whirled and spun.

Still, Galen continued. “What concerns me most, however, is the head wound. He...he has an intracranial hemorrhage.”

“An inter-what now?” Eugene curled his lip in confusion, tongue tripping over the foreign language and mind reeling with the brick wall being dropped on all their chests. 

“An intracranial hemorrhage. He’s bleeding into his brain. The impact after he was knocked off his feet likely ruptured an artery, causing a buildup of blood that's putting undue pressure on the brain and prolonging his unconscious state. I—I’m sorry to say it, but Varian has slipped into a coma. If he makes it through the night, his chances will be dramatically improved, but, even then, there’s no telling when, or _if_ , he will wake up.”

Lance had to throw his hands to his mouth, lest he lose his lunch all over the infirmary floor. No— _it just wasn’t possible_. Varian? In a _coma_? He, himself, hadn't witnessed a case, but he knew the statistics. It was rare to survive, most people falling into an eternal sleep, lost to the world around them. 

Angry and Catalina exchanged sharp looks, not entirely understanding what was being said. The words being tossed around were far beyond anything they had ever heard, while the word “coma” barely elicited what was apparently an appropriate response, considering the impact this news had on their friends. Despite it all, they could not help the sudden drop of their hearts into their stomachs. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. 

Rapunzel let out a trembling “ _No_ —,” struggling to reconcile the image of the lively, boisterous alchemist with the picture Galen’s words painted now. She didn't like what she saw. It sickened her. 

After a moment of respectful silence, Galen cleared his throat, drawing back the attention of the distraught group. “Does Varian have any family that should be notified? It—its a good idea that they are here with him, in case…” but he severed the sentence before the dreaded thought could be finished. 

Alas, the unspoken words did not go unheard. 

“Oh— _Quirin_! Eugene, we need to tell him! Oh, someone will have to bring him here and _oh, poor Quirin_. He’ll be heartbroken! I can't even—”

“I’ll do it,” Lance cut the princess of suddenly, a newfound strength burning in his eyes. “I’ll go fetch him. It’s—it’s the least I could do. Please, I have to do _something_.”

A brief moment of silence passed around the room before Eugene, saying not a word, met Lance’s steely gaze and held out his arm. 

Lance’s eyes flickered downward fleetingly, before he, too, extended an arm outward. His face betrayed no emotion, no sign of the storm brewing right beneath the surface of his skin. There was no indication of just how lost he truly felt—how it felt as though he were drowning, choking on air and thick, vile _guilt_. He did not mention how he craved in that moment to flee the room, to flee Varian’s presence forever. He did not mention how he would never be able to look the kid in the eyes again and feel strong doing so. He did not deserve to be there for Varian. Not after what he did. Not now—perhaps not ever again. But he did not speak any of this. Instead, Lance grasped Eugene’s forearm while the latter grasped his and they exchanged a fierce nod, like knights preparing for war. 

And a war it would be. 

* * *

The first thing she noticed was how incredibly _small_ he looked. How young, how vulnerable. He was a far cry from the vivacious spirit she had grown close to in these last months since returning to Corona. And it was certainly impossible to pair this Varian now with what he had been those years ago—wrought with hatred and anger and pain. _Broken_. 

Though, she supposed, he was a little broken now, too.

That image of Varian—his once friendly smile corrupted by a venomous scowl, eyes once so full of light darkened by betrayal and rage—was not one she pictured often, something of a forgotten bad dream. It wasn’t who he was anymore. 

Now he has become so much _more_. He’s finally found family in those around him—a home where he had once felt so lost and alone. He’s found love and acceptance— _happiness_. 

And to think this might be where it ends. 

_No_. Rapunzel wouldn't let herself think like that. He would live. He would be okay. He had to be, because _if he wasn't_ —

He would be okay. 

_________________

Rapunzel was curled up in a cushioned chair to Varian’s right, soft hands desperately clutching his pale, cold one while her head rested on Eugene’s shoulder. Angry and Catalina were restlessly asleep on a small cot to Varian’s left, faces pale and drawn, emotions run ragged by the last several hours. 

Not a word passed between the princess or the newly instated Captain of the Guards, the fragile peace only ever breaking with the occasional appearance of Galen, who was either examining Varian’s pupils and various wounds, checking and rechecking his pulse, or coaxing—likely foul—concoctions of medicinal value down his throat. 

And so they sat, for hours or for months, occasionally dropping into a fitful doze before startling awake with Galen’s latest entry. But still, Varian did not wake once. 

It was many hours later that thundering footsteps rattled the walls of the infirmary, the only warning before the doors were tossed open to grant yet another violent entrance. Chest heaving and eyes wide with a fear that so rarely split his mask of strength and control, Quirin’s feet pulled him to the doorway of his son’s private room without his command. But from there he could move no farther. 

Varian— _his son_ —so small, so fragile, was right there, body swallowed up in the large bed, skin the same translucent white as the sheets around him. But he wasn't _there_. A coma, Lance had said. A coma— _his son_. It wasn’t right, it—

His knees collided with the rough floors as Quirin collapsed by Varian’s side, mind unaware of how he was suddenly so close to his son, so close that he could reach out and touch him—and so he did. Falteringly, his shaking fingers reached for Varian’s cheek, palm cupping the icy skin, before they found their way to his mop of black hair, digging into the soft strands for something tangible to hold onto because he was slipping away.

His breath trembled and caught in his throat as his mouth suddenly tasted of ash, lungs filled with smoke and a burning fire of despair and confusion and _pain_. His gaze lifted from his son— _his only child_ —to meet the tearful eyes of the princess. 

There were so many questions fighting to jump forth from his tongue, all born of confusion and fear and something wretchedly acidic, for how could _she_ let something like _this_ happen to Varian—one of her citizens— _his son,_ but he bit them back. It wasn't her fault. Of course it wasn't. 

“Thank you for being here for him,” he managed instead, voice maddeningly strong despite his shattered innards. 

Rapunzel’s eyes softened, lips quirking into a ghost of a smile as she made to respond. But before she could reassure Quirin that _of course she would be here, Varian was more than just one of her people, he was like a brother_ —she caught a faint flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. 

“...Varian?” The name was a whispered gasp, almost afraid to voice her shred of hope to the wind, that, perhaps, he could finally be waking up. But _there_ —it happened again! A slight twitch of his fingers! “Varian can you hear me?”

The question—and more so _who_ it was directed towards—drew the attention of both Quirin and Eugene. All at once, the three were crowded around the bed, fingers clutching whatever was within reach and eyes fixated on the frail form lying beneath them. 

A twitch, again. And another. 

Another, this time of his entire arm. They were sporadic—strange. Rapunzel’s brows furrowed, eyes narrowing with confusion. Was he waking…?

All at once, the twitches were amplified tenfold as Varian’s lithe frame began jerking spasmodically. His limbs locked and his jaw clenched and his back arched _and he seized_. 

It was so sudden that the three figures jumped back out of shock—faces taut with an instantaneous look of pure terror at the sight in front of them. A horrified howl that lacerated soft muscle and sinew ripped itself from Quirin’s throat, echoing off the walls as he shouted for the physician. 

And still Varian seized.

Within seconds, Galen was through the doorway and dashing for Varian’s bed, commanding that they move the boy onto his side. But before any hands could find purchase on the convulsing body, Varian just as abruptly went still. 

The trembling stopped. The choked wheezing that had been emitting from Varian’s spasming throat stopped. He fell limp. Everything was still. Everything was silent. 

A sigh, soft and quaint, passed Varian’s bloodless lips. And no breath passed again.

* * *

In a place far away, where there was no light nor darkness, no sound nor silence—a vast space of everything and nothingness all at once—a figure emerged, wispy cloak billowing despite there being no breeze. 

There were no eyes, but his gaze bore down upon the small collapsed form all the same. A shadow of a grin—something malignant, something sinister—marred the translucent skin stretched across crumbling bone. His skeletal fingers unfurled to stroke the boy’s pale cheek before rising upwards, curiously fondling a streak of blue amongst the black locks of hair. 

Blue eyes lifted to find his face. Death observed him calmly.

“You’re early, my child.” His voice was thin and chilling. “But I am pleased to have found you at last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was difficult to write, as it ended up being very heavy with dialogue (which isn't usually my strong suit). The pacing I tried to set made the chapter a lot longer than expected by the time I reached the conclusion I originally set for this part—and shit that ending gave even me chills when I wrote it!
> 
> Fun fact: if any of you read the fourth book in The Giver series (called Son), my personification of Death is largely inspired by the description of Trademaster. Maybe paired with a slight visual cross with The Crooked Man from Conjuring2. I didn’t picture him as that typical warm embrace. He’s something more lethal (lol) and sinister. 
> 
> Also...in case you haven’t yet picked up on it, be prepared for LOTS of dashes. I use them all the time. I love them. It’s a slight problem. All they do is make my page-long sentences even longer, but will I ever stop? Probably not.
> 
> And just to put this out there, I will be forever thoroughly disappointed if I am not graced with the gift that is Jeremy Jordan’s singing in Sunday’s finale. There will be riots.
> 
> Stay tuned!


	4. "Come with me, my child."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are: another chapter, more angst. I’ve been in the car for about 6 hours now, which is apparently exactly what I needed to finish this one. This is a chapter I’ve been waiting for. Perhaps you’ve been waiting for it, too. 
> 
> Maybe I should have given a warning for what was coming at the last chapter’s end??? But, really, what fun would it be if I spoiled it? Hope it was a good surprise. Those of you in the comments—I see you!—sorry for the scare and emotional damage. I don’t regret it. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: psychological torture, self-destructive thoughts, graphic depictions of blood

_in my cold arms, you don't sleep_

_in my cold arms, your fear beats_

He had seen green. And he felt heat—a warmth that soon became insufferable as it set his skin alight with a flame he hadn’t been able to see or touch. He had seen white. And he felt an explosive eruption of pain and _unbearable pain_ in his leg, in his head—his entire being, inside and out. Then he had seen black. Darkness. And he felt...nothing.

* * *

The first thing Varian noticed when he opened his eyes was the lasting darkness, and he thought for a moment that he was wrong—that his eyes were somehow still closed. Then he thought for an even more terrifying moment that he was blind, his sight having been ripped away from his very being with no trial or defense—simply _gone_.

But, slowly, his vision adjusted to realize the blackness was not entirely black. It was...somehow lighter, though he could pinpoint no obvious source in the otherwise very dark— _not black?_ —void he found himself in...like shadows. _Yes_. A room full of shadows.

...the back of his mind pricked with a memory that didn’t quite feel like his, but not really like another’s either—a memory of gleaming skin and bone, of violating fingers that touched his face and his hair, but felt _wrong, so wrong_ all the same. And a voice, so quiet and unnervingly malicious, that spoke to him, _inside of him_ —

The second thing Varian noticed was the shallow water surrounding him, soaking into his clothes and dampening his skin. It was _cold_. It was a parasite—draining his body of any and all warmth, chilling him to his very bones.

His arms trembled under his weight when Varian attempted to push himself upright, wrists giving out under the strain and sending him toppling back into the frigid black waters. His eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to quell the sudden dizziness and strong swell of nausea, though how he could be dizzy when he _couldn’t see anything_ —

The second attempt was more successful, despite having to pause on his knees for breath, frozen lungs struggling to inflate. Varian’s legs rattled, very nearly buckling, but he managed to remain standing at last.

“Hello?” His voice was startlingly hoarse—perhaps the imagined fire raging through his chest and throat and veins was not so imagined after all. “Is anyone there?”

The only sound to return his call was his own echo.

Varian stumbled forward, feet struggling to maintain balance in the darkness, hands grasping outward for something—anything—to hold onto. _What he wouldn’t give for a set of fluorescent chemicals right now._

The subtle sound of the water lapping at his feet as he walked served a small comfort to the boy. To not be so completely alone, even if it was only the company of noise that he was now surrounded by, eased his fears minutely.

Varian _knew_ what sensory deprivation could do to a person—had read all about it. And he was infinitely relieved to have this small source of sound as a testament that he would face no such foe.

He wasn’t so sure his mind could prevail if he did.

“And at last you are awake.” The voice arose from nowhere, nearly sending Varian back to the ground in his sudden start at the unexpected sound.

“Wha—who’s there?”

“I was beginning to grow bored—but I am glad to have you. Now the fun can begin.” It—whatever _it_ was—spoke with an unsettling tone, words echoing in the void around Varian until they surrounded and penetrated his skull. It left his ears ringing.

Varian said nothing in return, shivers wracking his spine with the sudden fear and sense of wrongness as every bone in his body screamed for him to _move_. His feet shuffled backward, sloppily, sending water splashing in all directions. All hope of remaining unnoticed was easily squashed as his shaky limbs refused to stay quiet in his retreat—though Varian couldn’t quench the feeling that this-this _thing_ had been watching him for longer than he cared to think about.

Suddenly, without warning, his ankle was harshly ripped out from under him. Varian fell backward roughly into the shallow pool, back shrieking at the ferocity of the movement as his muscles spasmed in pain. Nails—long and sharp—bit into his soft flesh and they _pulled_. His own hands desperately clawed at the ground, searching for anything to grab ahold of, but was unsuccessful as he was yanked across the smooth floor.

The movement was brief before Varian was just as quickly released, though the hands did not withdraw. They were rapid and inescapable, moving at the speed of light as they next found purchase on his neck and heaved his small body skyward.

Varian grappled at the hold around his throat, eyes bulging and breath wheezing with panic and absolute _terror_. With his feet hanging only inches above the ground, Varian could do little more than squirm in his captor’s grip, but his feeble kicks made no contact in any direction.

“You would run away before we could properly meet? After all this trouble, I find that quite insolent—and you’ll discover, my child, I don’t take kindly to disrespect.”

The voice spoke into his face, so close he could feel the heat as a rancid breath washed over his skin—pervading his senses and sending his stomach into an abrupt twist. It was foul and it took his complete strength to fight the sudden heave that climbed up his throat.

Varian lifted his gaze slowly, carefully, and was met with a hood of darkness. Darker than the darkness surrounding him, darker than the pitch-black waters still stirring below. It was difficult to see, but beneath the hood—beneath the darkness—there was white. Paler than pale skin and gleaming bone. Ivory teeth— _pointed_ _teeth_ so sharp they would find no resistance in their sudden desire to rip and tear into the fragile skin on his neck.

His mind stuttered to a stop, air evading his lungs all at once. It came back to him like a crashing wave, memories permeating his entire being and he was drowning—drowning—

That face. Those teeth. _That voice_. He had heard it once before, the recollection faint in his mind. But it had spoken to him and those teeth had smiled at him a cruel smile and these fingers—fingers that were currently wrapped around his neck that could be oh so easily snapped with a flex of the wrist—they had touched him. Caressed him. _Violated him_. It made him shudder. It made him sick.

_My child—my child—my child—_

“Ah—I see that spark of recognition in your eyes. It’s all coming back now, isn’t it?” Varian wanted to rip the satisfaction right out of his tone and tear it to shreds so he might never speak again. _My child—my child—_

“Who are you?” His own voice was gravelly but held sturdy enough.

“Oh, child—sweet, innocent, _breakable_ child—I am known by many names. Many images. I am eternal—everlasting!” The fingers clutching his throat unexpectedly loosened as an arm threw Varian roughly to the ground, the splash echoing in the momentary silence.

The young alchemist had no time to move before the figure was leering over him, thin form twisting in unnatural places as its body descended upon his own until their chests were nearly touching, breaths intermingling in the minuscule space between them.

The darkness was closing in, black spots dancing in his eyes and shadowing the white skin and bone just above him. As the last of his consciousness departed, Varian just barely heard the silvery response, “You, my child, may call me Death.”

* * *

It was a biting chill that next greeted Varian as he arose into consciousness—a cold that felt somehow different from what he had felt... _there—_ in the waters, in the darkness. It was cold, but the air felt lighter. Free.

Actually...it was lighter. Upon peeling open his eyes, Varian could see the sky above him. It was a murky grey, overcast and foreboding, but it was _light_. Pellets of sharp crystals struck his bare face, the skin left stinging and numb. It was snowing.

“Do you remember this, my child?” _His_ voice returned, sounding just behind his head as Varian jolted with the shock.

The boy scrambled to his knees, hands digging into the piles of snow around him for support as he wavered. The cloaked figure—Death—was towering over him, thin white lips pressed into a bored line that expanded across his gaunt cheeks.

“ _This_ —when they cast you out into a blizzard as though you were nothing— _because_ you were nothing. They refused to help you. They didn’t care. They never did.”

And Varian did remember it. How could he ever forget the blistering wind that sliced into his skin and left him raw, his fingers blue—not that he had felt the pain, body long since numbed by the vicious wintry air? How could he ever forget the tearing in his throat as he yelled, _pleaded_ for help because _she had promised_ —only to be dragged and tossed back out into the raging storm like yesterday’s scraps.

He would always remember it.

But he remembered her tears, the heartbreak written plainly on her face when she was forced to tell him no. It hurt her like it hurt him. He hadn’t seen it at the time. But he saw it now.

He remembered the red that had infested his vision and his veins, like blood pooling over the white snow that swirled around him. He remembered the hatred and the rage and the burning desire to make others feel what he felt—to hurt them because he couldn’t be alone in his pain. It had been his fault— _his fault_ —but it hurt too much to admit, so he hated others instead of hating himself.

And he remembered that he never wanted to feel that way ever again.

“You’re wrong. _You’re wrong_. They do care. I hadn’t seen it at the time because I let myself be blinded by my anger. I thought those same things, but _I was wrong_.” Varian leveled his gaze with the figure in front of him, steely blue meeting the darkness head-on in an immense clashing of wills. “You can’t trick me.”

Death did not falter in his stare, mouth seeming to curve upwards in a bemused smirk. “You speak so certainly, so _bravely_. Is that how you like to see yourself—so brave and strong, my dear child?” He purred in his ear, a ringing melody that wrapped him in a warm embrace before smothering his mouth, suffocating him. “You are naive— _a fool_.”

“I’m not—”

“You think because you _apologized_ that everything is forgotten? That they trust you? _Accept you?_ You will never be wanted, child. Not by this kingdom—not by your friends—not even by your own father.”

Varian’s heart clenched, throat tightening with a sudden lump of thick emotion. “Y-you’re wrong. _You’re wrong!_ I’ve made up for my mistakes. I’ve made my father—”

“Proud?” The skeletal fingers returned to card gently through his hair from behind. Varian did not turn his head as he felt rather than saw the cloak’s hood lean over his left shoulder. “Have you?”

Then the shadow was gone, and the fingers were gone, but _he was still there_.

“Tell me, child, how could anyone ever be proud of someone as _useless_ as you? You can’t do anything right—you can’t be good—you couldn’t even be _bad_. You are worthless. _Nothing_.”

Varian’s head spun in time with his churning stomach because _he’s right—he’s right—he’s right—_

 _Worthless!_ his mind screamed at him. _A danger—a menace—a disgrace!_ His hands trembled as he held them out in front of him, seeing nothing but red and an amber mausoleum and disappointment and _fear_.

People had feared him, once. Perhaps they still do.

Above him, the sky darkened with the billowing clouds, the wind seething in bitterness and a need for destruction and torment. It lashed out at Varian’s skin, mutilating the tender flesh with a vengeance, leaving behind raw gaping wounds of anguish and despair—blood pooling onto the ground in a puddle of self-loathing and a desperate desire to be free, to be free of it all. These thoughts. These emotions. This life—

Varian turned his face skyward, tracks of salty tears freezing on his already frozen cheeks. Why should he stay? Why was he fighting the creature in the cloak behind him? _He was right_.

It was subtle—a change so slight, Varian almost missed it entirely. The clouds shifted barely enough to grant passage to a single ray of sunlight. But it was enough.

He remembered the sun—golden hair and kind green eyes. He remembered her soft hands and softer voice as it welcomed him back into her ethereal embrace. Accepting him. _Forgiving him_.

He remembered melting crystals of an amber glow, his father’s strong arms cradling him gently while his voice spoke tremulously of pride and love.

He remembered shared laughs and friendly touches with those he had once despised and had once despised him. Those feelings were gone, replaced with a warmth that coursed through his veins and resurrected his once wilted heart.

“You’re wrong. You don’t get it—they forgave me, and I forgave them. My father _is_ proud of me. Rapunzel—”

“ _The princess_? The embodiment of the sun and all things _pure and good_?” His voice was sharp and scornful. “You would be so foolish to believe she would ever forgive you? Ever truly want you back?” Death moved quickly, stopping only inches from Varian’s shivering form. His mouth was transfixed in a grotesque snarl as the bones of his cheek seemed to crack and crumble under the strain.

“Do you know what she sees when she looks at you? What she _really_ saw in those red rocks?” He leaned in close, close enough that Varian could only just make out two voids in the figure’s face that were narrowed with malice. They contained a darkness that seemed to draw Varian into their depths. “She sees you for what you are— _a monster_.”

“N-no. That’s not true. She—she told me she saw Cass—”

“You really think she would tell you the truth? After everything you’ve done to her people, her family—to her? You don’t deserve her trust, her honesty. Face it, child! You’re nothing but her worst nightmare—that’s all you’ll ever be.”

Varian grit his teeth, eyes squinting with anger and with the raw, physical pain constricting around his chest and his heart. “Y-you’re lying!”

Death threw his head back with a loud, hollow laugh. It was the worst sound Varian had ever heard. Before he could react, the cloaked figure’s hand shot out to grip Varian’s chin, razor-sharp nails lacerating his cheek. His grin split his face in half, so wide all his daggered teeth were visible. “Am I?”

All at once, their surroundings changed. The darkness receded to reveal bright, colorful walls amassed with pigments of the rainbow—beautiful artwork depicting scenes of bravery and love and loss. It didn’t matter that Varian had never been in this room before—he could recognize Rapunzel’s artwork anywhere. They were in her bedroom.

His head whipped around, as though he were searching for the princess herself, but they were alone. In fact, there was nothing around them at all—the walls in front of him extended only partially into his periphery before the colors were lost to the shadows once more.

“I—I don’t understand. Why did you bring me here?”

“Look around you. You don’t believe me? You are so foolish to think you’ve actually gained anyone’s trust—anyone’s friendship?” His long, bony arms extended out, gesturing to the wall in front of them. “Well see for yourself exactly what you are to them.”

And so Varian looked. His eyes roamed the dazzling display of friendship and family that told perhaps the most magnificent story. It truly was a masterpiece. He could even feel the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth but— _there_. His gaze froze, the smile falling from his lips as his breath caught in his suddenly shredded throat.

Far off the ground, nearly at the height of the ceiling was an image Varian almost didn’t recognize. There were great big metal contraptions looming in the corner, their rusted parts a black that was so much like the darkness closing in on Varian’s vision—his automatons. And there was a terrifying, feral creature with wide, bone-white gleaming eyes and snarling teeth, foam dripping from the mouth— _Ruddiger_. The only one who had stuck by Varian’s side during his rapid descent into hatred—the one he had so maliciously turned into something he never wanted to be _against his will_. And there—in the center of the piece was the smallest, yet the most vicious figure. It was the only human in the scene yet remained as the most inhuman. It was— _it was him_. Dressed in an oversized cloak and gloves, his face was hidden behind a metal mask, eyes nothing but a glowing green. It was a monster. _It was him_.

Varian’s neck cracked with the forceful drop of his head, eyes tearing from the painting in front of him. Tears welled in his eyes, but he wouldn’t—couldn’t let them fall. He would not let himself be weak in front of the figure behind him. He wouldn’t let him be _right_.

Icy claws wrapped around his neck from behind, grasping his jaw and pulling his head back up, forcing him to once again face his own image staring back—green burning into blue. “Don’t you get it, my child? You are _nothing_. You are worthless to them—to everyone around you. They look at you and they see a monster. They look at you and they want you _gone_.”

* * *

It took Varian a moment to notice the fading of the colored walls back into darkness. A second later, his knees buckled, sending him crashing to the slick floor, hands barely managing to catch him before he collapsed fully into the shallow water.

His chest burned as he struggled to breathe, lungs gasping for air but coming up empty-handed with each unsuccessful inhale. His mind was foggy, vision blurring with the lack of oxygen and with salty tears that set his eyes alight with a fire of cruel pain and realization— _he was right_. Varian was foolish to think he could ever be more than the villain he had been—could ever be more than a disappointment.

His hands clenched into tight fists, fingers digging into his tender palms as though seeking a source of some other pain that might be able to drown out how terribly he hurt _inside_.

“You really are a broken child,” the words were spoken in an almost giddy recognition, as though the figure were witnessing the results of an experimental breakthrough. And Varian was the lab rat that had proved him right. _He was right_.

Varian pried his eyes open— _when had they clenched shut?_ —but did not yet face his tormentor. A flicker of movement below him captured his gaze. It was him—or, rather, his reflection in the dark liquid mirror that stared back at him.

The image below was pale, eyes dull and shadowed with an exhaustion than ran bone-deep. His face was drawn and withered with grief. His hands held a knife of hatred with its blade turned inward.

And Varian felt every harsh stab that struck his chest and his bleeding heart.

The reflection beneath him reached upwards, hands breaking the surface and beckoning Varian forward. Its skin was an odd mixture of white and black and red—as though the pale hands had been burned black in a horrid fire, leaving the blood to run freely down its arms.

Still, they beckoned, and the eyes looking back at him that appeared so much like his own seemed to beg for his response. Varian leaned forward until he was within reach, ears straining to hear the words emanating from the silently moving mouth.

Without warning, the fingers turned to claws as they wrapped around his throat. His senses were wholly pervaded by the wretched stench of charred flesh and Varian _gagged_ , though his empty stomach had nothing to give.

The remainder of his reflection arose from the ground to join its strangling hands. Its face— _his face_ —closed in until they were inches apart, blue eyes wide with fear staring deep into eyes devoid of color and emotion and _life_.

“Stay, my child. Stay here where we are all broken.”

That—but that was _his_ voice— _Death’s voice_ —echoing out of Varian’s reflection. It wasn’t his own. It was—was it a trick?

Varian’s shaking hand shot forward until his fist collided with his—not his— _his reflection’s_ jaw. The claws released as the body drew back, allowing Varian the opportunity to crawl backward in an attempt to put as much distance between him and his—his—

His reflection was shifting, black hair with a blue streak morphing into a dark cloak and pale fingers lengthening into bony hands. Its face shrunk into itself to reveal papery skin that was split across gaunt cheekbones, and in place of where he might’ve expected a darkening bruise—where his fist had met its mark—the bone was caved in, crumbling into fractured pieces.

The eyes were gone, but Varian could see the venomous glare, nonetheless.

“You think you can fight me? You are _nothing_! _You have nothing to fight for!_ ”

Despite his initial escape, Varian found he could no longer move as Death stalked towards him, his feet frozen in place. But before the figure could reach him, it disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. Varian blinked confusedly, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of the _thing_ before it could startle him again.

The air around him seemed to shift, thickening with such an intensity that it was nearly suffocating. His skin pricked with unease and a sudden wracking chill.

The claws reappeared out of nowhere and Varian had no chance to react before they dug into his throat and _pulled_ , ripping out flesh and sinew and muscle. Varian’s hands reached for his neck on reflex as a bright crimson poured forth from the gaping wound. The blood was _hot_ —a fire against his skin, burning his fingers and his chest as it flowed.

The liquid heat rose upward, flooding his mouth and spewing forth as it bubbled past his lips. He coughed, expelling the blood, but could not draw in any air as the crimson only worked quicker to replace itself. He choked and choked; _he couldn’t breathe_ —

The claws returned with a vengeance as they split his back wide open, gleaming white bone severing arteries and soft tissue before they ripped their way through his abdomen. Varian could only let out a gurgling gasp, throat still spasming against the ocean of blood, before the fingers retreated with force.

The momentum sent Varian to his knees, one hand catching his weight while the other was torn between holding together his shredded throat or staunching the new flow from his stomach.

The waters below him still glowed a clear, crystal black.

There was no blood on the ground, no blood on his hands or pouring from his throat or chest. His mouth was free of the choking liquid, but still _he couldn’t breathe_.

“You want to fight to return to a home that doesn’t want you? Then fight! Fight back—FIGHT BACK!”

The trembling hand still barely holding his tired body upright inexplicably found the handle of a silver sword clenched within its grasp.

His body screamed in protest, but Varian’s mind was empty except for a single thought to _fight him—fight him—fight—_

The sword swung wildly in his hold, arms looking to cut down anything that stood in his path. The figure was _there_ but untouchable. Death danced out of reach with each move, a mocking laugh ringing throughout the vast expanse of shadows.

At last, one strike landed true as it melded with the cloaked figure, but he only let loose a deep cackle before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

“You’ll have to be better than that if you want to defeat me,” _his_ voice purred in Varian’s left ear.

With a cry echoing his anger and anguish, Varian spun and thrust the sword relentlessly into the gut of the figure behind him. His blood was pounding in his ears, breaths ragged with exertion.

The sound of a rattling choke, a wheezing breath wrenched his gaze upwards. His heart stopped. 

Standing before him, sword lodged into his abdomen and red rapidly staining his shirt, was _his father._

Quirin’s eyes were wide with shock and pain and _betrayal_. His mouth gaped, tongue moving in an attempt to speak, but no words escaped. His hands clenched at the sword still hanging from his body.

Varian was frozen, mind numb with disbelief and absolute _horror_. Before he could process the sight assaulting his brain and suddenly pounding heart, Quirin collapsed to the ground, blood pooling into the water around him. It turned an ugly red in the dim light.

As though attached through an invisible string, Varian followed his father to the ground like a puppet, knees colliding harshly with the stone floor. Tears spilled down his cheeks, a thousand words of remorse and shock fighting to leave his swollen tongue, but his father’s words reached him first.

“How could you Varian? How could you do this to me? You killed me. You’re nothing but a disappointment. _You’re no son of mine_.”

His chest was tight with a debilitating panic, lungs collapsing as all the air in him was punched out with the blow of those words. He tried to speak, to tell his father _I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, I never wanted this—_ but his mouth was glued shut.

He could do nothing but watch as Quirin’s form fell limp, eyes going blank and glassy, still locked onto Varian’s own in an eternal gaze of pain and betrayal and disappointment. The stare bore into the back of Varian’s head, forever etching itself onto his brain.

“You bring nothing but pain to those around you. They would be better off without you.” The words were silky, almost comforting despite the poison they carried. “What’s more—I think you already know this.”

“N-no. This—this isn’t real. You—you’re tricking me!” _Was it?_ Varian wasn’t so sure what was real or fake anymore.

A new voice caught his attention, drawing his mind out of the depths of his despair. He never noticed how the form of his father vanished from sight and the red water turned black once more.

“Varian?” It was Rapunzel. And—and Eugene was by her side! They would set this straight! They would ease his worries and tell him everything would be alright.

Varian climbed unsteadily to his feet, stumbling under the immense weight of confusion and guilt and fear, before rushing towards her— _her_ , a beacon of light and hope; she would save him.

Her next words hit him hard, sending him skidding to an instantaneous halt. “Why are you still here? Don’t you know that we don’t want you here? Don’t you know you’re not welcome?”

His brows furrowed, body reeling back as though he had been slapped. “W-what? But I—I thought—you said—”

“You really thought we could ever forgive you?” Eugene’s voice was steel, but his gaze held a note of pity, as though he were looking down on some kicked mutt that had been tossed out on the street—worthy of sympathy, but not worthy of love or acceptance. _Unwanted_.

Rapunzel’s eyes were clouded with hatred, a far cry from the bright look of hope and infinite compassion he had grown to find so uplifting. “After everything you’ve done, we will _never_ forgive you. You’re not wanted, you don’t belong here. _We want you gone_.”

Varian turned abruptly, shaking hands grasping at his hair and eyes squeezing shut. He never saw the pair fade into nothingness behind him.

“I’m dead because of you.” It was, perhaps, one of the last voices Varian had expected to hear over the roaring in his head. He looked up, chin rising slowly and carefully, to find Lance looking coldly back at him. “Your contraption exploded because you can’t do anything right. You’re nothing but a menace to the kingdom—a danger. And I am dead _because of you_.”

Varian couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. He wanted to argue that it wasn’t true, but he had no memory of what happened after he lit the flynnolium. He didn’t know what happened and now Lance says—Lance could’ve been killed and _he doesn’t know what actually happened_.

What about Angry? Catalina?

Was their blood on his hands too?

Lance’s words were ice as they froze his heart and his very blood. “Why should you get to live after what you’ve done to me?”

The claws were back, but for once they were soft as they rested on his shoulder, turning Varian away from the cold fury polluting Lance’s face. He, too, disappeared without a trace, but Varian’s gaze had already been pulled away.

Death’s expression was warm, thin lips downturned in a show of compassion—of _understanding_. His words glistened like honey, wrapping Varian’s thin, shivering, breathless form into their loving embrace.

“Why would you leave when you have nothing to return to? Why would you leave when you’re no longer wanted?” A cruel smile pulled tight over sharpened teeth. His body seemed to swirl around and around Varian in a rapid motion, circling him until he felt dizzy.

When he spoke again, it was into his right ear, the hot, rancid breath sending shivers down his spine. “Why would you leave when you could stay?”

Before Varian’s eyes, the dark cloak spun and twisted, morphing into a sight he thought he would never lay eyes on again.

She emerged from the shadows, eyes tender and serene. Her lips were drawn into a gentle smile, offering something Varian had so desperately craved deep inside— _pride_ — _acceptance_. Her hand was stretched out, reaching for him.

“Mom?”

Slowly, hesitantly, Varian stepped towards her.

* * *

_in my cold arms, you stay._

_(mumford and sons - cold arms)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So those first few introductory lines were definitely a recall to chapter one’s intro. I don't know if it was as clear then that that was supposed to be Varian’s thoughts before he fell unconscious. I can easily see the interpretation of it being Lance’s thoughts, since he became the main focus of that chapter. I’m definitely wishing I didn't write it in chapter one at all so I could’ve put it here, but...oh well. 
> 
> Anyway, you guys really are awesome. I love reading all the comments and hearing the emotions my work makes you feel. For once I know what it’s like to be on the other side of the screen—writing the words that elicit such responses! It’s oddly...empowering. Gratifying. But, really, you all are great! Keep it up—it’s motivating!
> 
> By the way. I totally pegged Varian for a piano guy. It fits and I love it. I only wish he had sang more and that his hair would’ve actually meant something.
> 
> Stay tuned!


	5. Wherever home may be—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay—I really took 4 whole days before I could even figure out how to start this one.  
> Anyway, so that last chapter got real dark real quick. But don't worry: it’s gonna get a lot darker before things can start looking up… 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Graphic depictions of blood, explicit language, psychological torture, suicidal thoughts (kind of—I mean, he’s already “dead” but…)

_And how was I to know_  
_I'm not strong_  
_Oh, I hope you know that you're my home_  
_But now I'm lost_  
_So lost_

_(brighton – forest fire)_

It was chaos. It was pandemonium. 

Only seconds after Varian’s chest failed to rise again did the reality of the situation strike them all mercilessly across the face. Eugene’s muscles moaned with the strain of holding Quirin back from outright tackling the physician in his frenzy to get to his son. Rapunzel was frozen in place, standing a mere few paces away from the bed. For all her strength, for all her courage, nothing could have ever prepared the radiant princess for the sight of Varian—her dear friend— _a child_ —lying unresponsive before her, lungs not inflating and heart not beating. _Dead_. 

Galen, himself, was a flurry of frantic motion. His face was stoic with recognition and a burdening knowledge—he had seen this sight, this terrible sight, before. And he would see it again, in time.

His hands were confident and precise as fingertips reached for the carotid artery beneath Varian’s jaw, eyes closing as he searched and relentlessly searched for the pulse he so desperately needed to find. 

There was none. 

Quirin had been there when his wife died. He had watched her body slacken and her eyes dull. He had seen the miserable look upon Galen’s face when the physician pronounced her dead—how his face had aged years in those brief moments, how his shoulders had sagged with the weight of the world, mind whirling with how to break such dreadful news. Quirin had seen it all once before. 

To see it again, now, as the physician stood in front of his son— _his only son_ —was beyond comprehension, beyond anything he could ever bear. 

“No. _NO_. You will not give up on him. _Do you hear me?_ You will not give up on my son now, like you had done with my wife!” It was a low blow. Quirin knew that even as the words fled from his tongue without his permission. But he could not—would not—face this world without the last of everything he had to live for. 

Galen’s shoulders stiffened momentarily before he was moving again, straightening Varian’s lifeless body and immediately beginning to press downward on his frail chest. 

The sight was enough to rouse Rapunzel from her glazed stupor, face contorting into a fearful grimace and hands reaching for the physician’s bicep. “W-what are you doing? Stop! You’re going to hurt him!”

“ _I’m saving him._ ” His words were harsh, like his compressions. The furiously determined tone beat down on them much like his fists were beating down on the young alchemist’s chest. But there was an air of urgency, of an uncompromisable need to _bring the boy back_. 

Galen’s hands were ruthless in their motion. They pushed and they pushed hard against Varian’s sternum, demanding the still heart to beat once more. And when the call went unanswered, his lips lowered to blow breath back into the deflated lungs. 

He was met with a gasp. A glorious gasp that was followed by a glorious cough. 

The physician could do nothing to stop his body from descending to the chair behind him, legs refusing to hold his weight any longer with the sudden lift of the deathly veil that had shrouded the room. He collapsed into the worn cushion with a breathless laugh—sounding much closer to a sob—as his trembling hands clutched one another in a grateful prayer. 

Varian’s breaths were raspy, wheezing, but they were _there_. His chest rose disjointedly, and his eyes were still closed, body still comatose, but it remained the most beautiful sight to be seen. 

“What’s that?”

All eyes were first drawn to the timid voice emanating from Angry, who, like her sister, had awoken to the commotion around. Gazes then followed her shaking finger in its indication towards the figure on the bed.

A small, seemingly harmless line of blood streamed from Varian’s nose, coloring his lips and pale skin a striking crimson.

“Dammit. Damn it all to hell.” If anyone was shocked by the colorful language spewing from the physician, there was no indication, all too startled by the fresh blood traversing the paths of Varian’s upper lip. 

Galen immediately pried apart Varian’s eyelids, intensely examining his eyes, but was tragically dismayed to find the uneven dilation of his blown pupils. 

“The blood is collecting beneath his skull faster than it’s healing, causing a buildup of pressure against his brain. I need to relieve this pressure before the damage is irreversible.” He let loose a low sigh, eyes refusing to meet any other gaze in the room as he scurried about gathering tools and materials. “This means I have to drill a hole into Varian’s skull to drain the blood. It—it’s best you all leave while I do this.”

Rapunzel was quick to answer, now standing tall with her hands resting on Angry and Catalina’s shoulders. “No. We’re not leaving him. Not now when he needs us the most.”

“Trust me. You’re not going to want to see—”

“ _JUST DO IT!_ ” Quirin’s voice penetrated the still air around them, wild eyes still locked on his son. His eyes raised to meet the physician’s unflinching stare. “Do it. Please.”

Unwilling to delay the necessary action, Galen could only shake his head minutely as he immediately began drilling deep into the bone. 

The sound was grating, loud in the sudden silence and the _smell_ —the stench of burning skin and bone turned each stomach pitilessly. And still the drill kept turning and turning into Varian’s skull, deeper and deeper until it gave a sudden start as it broke through the barrier, emitting a shrill crunch. 

Galen moved expertly, retracting the tool and turning Varian to his side, head rotating listlessly and crudely on a limp neck. 

The blood spilled instantaneously, a thick, dark—so dark it was black—liquid that surged from the hole _in Varian’s skull._ Senses were flooded with the inescapable metallic smell. It did not stop. It did not stop, and the blood was flowing and flowing and flowing—

Crimson puddled onto the floor in a depthless pool, growing and growing and beckoning everyone to step into its clutches so they, too, might drown in the sudden vile _sickness_ that encompassed the room. 

The carpet below would forever bear the mark of this terrible bloodshed—an eternal reminder of loss and cruel mortality. 

This time it was Quirin who found his legs giving way beneath him, narrowly managing to find purchase on the chair behind him before he could crash to the floor. The color drained from his face much the same as the blood was draining from Varian’s head.

Rapunzel could not quell the rising nausea that overwhelmed her, stomach heaving its meager contents onto the floor at her feet. She could hardly discern the image before her through the mass of tears clouding her vision, chest heaving with wretched gasps for air, clean air—but it was all blood and it was pervading her blurry sight and scorched nostrils and withered lungs. She could taste it—she could feel its slick heat as it dribbled through her fingers and bubbled past her lips. It was slime in her throat, a sticky, viscous liquid that coagulated until she couldn't breathe— _couldn’t breathe_ —

Galen’s eyes snapped up briefly in search of respite from the revolting sight below him only to land on the wavering figures of Angry and Catalina—their faces pale, eyes wide and mouths locked in a nauseated grimace. His heart clenched with the knowledge that they would not soon erase this night from their memories.

“Get the children out of here!” The physician’s voice was rough, threads loosening in their durability to hold himself together. 

Eugene was scarcely stable on his own feet, hands clamped into tight fists at his side, but was only just able to clear the roaring turbulence of static in his head enough to grab the girls’ quivering wrists and pull them from the room with a cursory backward glance. 

He didn't think he would ever forget the sight of red— _so much red_ —as it spilled and gathered on the floor beneath. 

* * *

When the blood stopped flowing and hearts began beating once more, they were silent. 

Galen checked and rechecked Varian’s pupils and timed his pulse. Gently, sorrowfully, he ran a warm cloth over Varian’s temple, massaging it into his thick black locks in an attempt to erase these last gruesome moments. 

He could never truly succeed in such an endeavor, however. The deep, garish stain of crimson marring the carpet below would ensure that. 

With a deep breath, he turned to the remaining occupants in the room. “Only time will tell when Varian might awaken. I must be truthful though, even if he does, I fear the damage that has been done. There is a chance that the boy will not be the same—that there may be lasting brain damage. But...we will cross that road when— _if_ —it arrives. My greatest concern right now is the possibility Varian might not wake at all. I plead that it does not come to this, but we must be prepared all the same.”

Still, Rapunzel and Quirin were silent. 

Galen closed his eyes briefly, heaving a weighty sigh. “The trephination _did_ help to relieve dangerous intracranial pressure. You need to know that that was our best option—our _only_ option. It was ugly but it was necessary.” He turned to the door, stopping at its threshold. “Varian is a strong kid. If anyone can fight this and _win_ , it’s him. You all should get some rest.”

With that, the weary physician left behind the room of nightmares that would soon visit him again in his sleep. 

Rapunzel and Quirin were still. And they were silent. 

_________________

Perhaps it was seconds, perhaps it was months later before any word broke the stagnant air between them. 

Quirin was crouched over Varian’s right side, large hands clasping his son’s delicate one and mouth moving in unspoken whispers of prayer. Rapunzel sat further back, almost fearful to approach the fragile scene lest it break—lest _he_ break more than he already has. Eugene stood beside her, a source of strength she seemed to be sorely lacking. Angry and Catalina had followed shyly behind, returning to a room they were hesitant to re-enter, but had had little other choice, seeing as Lance had yet to reappear and they could not fathom being alone _now_. 

“What happened to him? What could have possibly caused _this_?”

The words were not harsh, not really. They were spoken with pure exhaustion and incomprehension, as though Quirin simply lacked the energy to feel angry about the situation any longer. 

The words hit Rapunzel all the same. She wasn't to blame, she knew that, but couldn't help the infectious guilt that bore down on her. 

Seeing the princess flinch, Eugene squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “Didn’t Lance fill you in on your trip back to the castle?” 

“Lance did not return with me. He only told me there had been an emergency involving Varian—that he had been injured—and I was to get to the castle as fast as I could. Then he walked away.”

“He walked away?”

“Towards the forest. Muttered something about needing to clear his head, I believe. I was, of course, a little too preoccupied to stop him.” 

Eugene didn't respond, brows furrowing with heavy concern as he shared a look with Rapunzel. Wordlessly, he stood with one last departing touch before he, too, escaped the tense atmosphere. 

_________________

He found him about a mile outside of Corona, vastly due to Max’s impressive tracking skills. Lance was sat on the edge of a cliff face, overlooking the morning sun as its rays rippled across the crystal waters. It was peaceful. Untroubled. 

To think—only half a day earlier, his largest concern had been a thief that had stolen his identity. 

Now he had to face the very real possibility of losing a close friend. A little brother. 

Eugene could not ignore the painful constricting of his heart as the thought crossed his mind. He paused momentarily in his steps, fighting to smooth the trembling grimace as it danced across his haggard face. 

“Wow! I could get used to a view like this.” The comment rolled off his tongue easily, a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. 

Lance spared him only a startled glance before his shoulders slumped in resignation, turning back to face the great expanse of endless sea and mountains. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.” 

When the darker man offered no response, Eugene dropped to the bristling grass beside his friend. “Why aren't you back at the castle right now? Quirin said you didn't explain anything—just told him to come here and then took off.”

“What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to look him in the eye— _Varian’s father_ —and tell him that I’m the reason his son is lying on his deathbed right now. Tell me: how do I face anyone after this and admit this is _my fault_.”

“Listen Lance. You can't blame yourself for—”

“ _No_. You don't get it! You weren't there. _This is my fault._ Varian told us not to mess with his invention—not to put any more chemicals in it. _He told us._ But I didn't listen. And I dumped the whole fucking barrel of it in his machine and it exploded right in his face. So yeah. It is my fault. It’s my fucking fault so don't try to tell me it’s not.”

Eugene found he couldn't say much to that. It’s true—he hadn't been there. He didn't know what happened while they were gone. Not really. But he’d be damned if he sat here and let his best friend tear himself apart with unjust guilt. 

“That doesn't matter.” He threw up a quick hand when Lance shot him a dark, questioning glare. “ _It doesn't_. Maybe you shouldn't have tampered with the device. Maybe that did cause the explosion. But maybe it would have exploded anyway. The point is that it was an accident. You could never have foreseen this happening. And I know you would never, in a million years, have _asked_ for this to happen.” 

Eugene pushed himself to his feet, pausing to observe the breathtaking landscape before them, before turning his gaze back to Lance. “You can't beat yourself up over something in the past. It happened. It sucks— _it really sucks_ —but it happened. You need to face it—accept it—and be there for Varian now because he needs all of us. He needs _you_ , Lance.”

Lance’s head remained bowed for a beat, before he raised his chin to meet Eugene’s eyes that shimmered with empathy, with understanding. “I don't know if I can face Varian again after this. Eugene...I’m—I’m _afraid_ to face him again. What if he doesn't forgive me?”

The smaller man was silent for a moment, mulling the words over and grimacing at the bad taste Lance’s confession left on his tongue. “I—I guess that’s something you’re going to have to deal with, too, if it comes to that. But Lance...right now I think that’s a chance you have to take.” Eugene bit his lip, unsure how to soften the blow he was about to serve the already wounded man. “Galen says the kid has a shaky road to recovery—no one’s really sure how this is going to end. I know you’re scared Varian won’t forgive you; I know you’re scared to lose his friendship,” he placed a sturdy hand on Lance’s shoulder, eyes meeting in a resolute stare, “but would you be able to forgive yourself if Varian d—if something happened—and you _weren't_ _there?_ ”

Eugene held the other’s gaze for only an instant before he turned, mounted Max, and rode off towards the castle once more, leaving Lance to reflect on his words under the stroking fingers of the rising sun. 

* * *

_Before Varian’s eyes, the dark cloak spun and twisted, morphing into a sight he thought he would never lay eyes on again._

_She emerged from the shadows, eyes tender and serene. Her lips were drawn into a gentle smile, offering something Varian had so desperately craved deep inside—pride—acceptance. Her hand was stretched out, reaching for him._

_“Mom?”_

_Slowly, hesitantly, Varian stepped towards her._

_…_

“My son. My dearest son.” Her voice was melodious, an enchanting tune that lured Varian to her, his footsteps automatic and involuntary.

“I—I don't understand. Why—how are—” The words were swirling in his head at a rate so fast he could barely string a single thought together. His mouth was dry, throat choking with an emotion he had long believed suppressed. But it was there—overwhelming incredulity and grief for the bond he had been deprived of as a child. 

“Varian. My dear son, oh, how I’ve missed you so. Come with me, my son,” her fingers beckoned him forth subtly. 

Her voice—how he had _longed_ to hear it since it had been lost. Her face, her sweet smile—how he had forgotten what she looked like! But she was here— _she was here_. With him! 

He could not fight the smile that broke his gaunt features, a spark of life returning to haunted eyes. Varian stumbled forwards a few more unsteady steps, tears blurring his vision and sending her slim form into a kaleidoscope of shimmering colors. 

“Take my hand, my child, and stay with me.”

The words— _those words_ —caught Varian off guard, his feet faltering in their motion as he staggered in the dark emptiness. _My child—my child—my child—_

An icy pit of dread manifested in his stomach, heart constricting and lungs collapsing all at once. His hand, still outstretched to her, to his mother— _his dead mother_ —froze in the stiff air. He choked on the heinous bile and _fear_ that rose in his throat as a strangled laugh escaped his lips at the realization that he had let himself be fooled again. Let himself be _humiliated_ by this monster. 

“You—you—you’re not _her_. I can't believe—how could I have let you—”

His mother—no, not his mother— _Death_ closed in instantaneously, the beautiful face horribly deformed by the look of rage in its eyes as she— _he_ leered at him. “Take my hand and _stay_.” 

Varian slapped the outstretched fingers away, despising the proximity of something so incredibly _foul_. He shuffled backwards, frantically glancing between the darkness behind him and the malicious figure before him as it twisted and turned, claws and bone white fangs protruding from what had been his mother’s lovely skin and lips. 

The black waters echoed the sounds of his hasty retreat, a ringing tune as Varian’s feet disrupted the smooth surface, then his knees when he crashed to the ground. He was quick to stand, scrambling for purchase, mind screaming _to escape—to escape—to run—_

The shallow pool abruptly deepened below his feet, swallowing his tired body whole as only a surprised shout fled his tongue before his mouth flooded with water, filling his throat and filling his lungs with filth and _he couldn't breathe—he was drowning_. 

Desperate fingers scrabbled uselessly in the murky depths, searching for the surface with no fortune. Varian was sinking and his limbs were thrashing violently, but he was _still sinking_ to the bottom of his watery grave. 

The briefest flash of white caught Varian’s burning eyes, heart pounding with the primal need for oxygen and with the hope that, perhaps, that was his escape. His limbs were heavy as they unsuccessfully sliced through the ocean around him, failing to twist his body towards the small source of light and freedom.

But—the light was...growing? What had been a speck of white now appeared larger below Varian’s flailing legs. It— _it was approaching him_. Varian’s bloodshot eyes widened, exhausted arms pausing in their movements to float listlessly for a brief moment as the white grew and grew, coming closer and closer and closer—

Bone-white, glimmering fingers found purchase on his frostbitten ankle and _pulled_. The water around him was a sudden torrent of rapids, the current pushing at him from all sides, beating at him and beating at him until his brittle skin was bruised and raw. His mouth fell open in a silent scream, filthy liquid filling his insides and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see; _he was going to die_. 

And still he was moving d _own down down_ until all at once he broke the surface, battered body falling from above, only to collapse a single count later onto the same floor on which he had stood not a minute before. 

Varian laid still in a trembling heap, breaths heaving in his ragged throat as though he had swallowed glass and every shard was lodged in the soft tissue. Hacking coughs wracked his frame, lungs attempting to expel the water that wasn't there but had only just filled them so completely.

“Pl-please. Let me go.” Varian’s voice was quiet, resigned. 

“Let you go?” Death had returned to his terribly disfigured form, claws gentle in their sweet caress. They traced his jaw and wrapped around the back of his neck until the tips dug into the tender flesh—a masked threat. “I’m not the one keeping you here, child. You’re doing that _all on your own_.”

The boy’s eyes squinted with confusion, lips curling in disagreement. “Wh-what—”

“You could leave anytime—if you _really_ wanted to.” The cloaked figure leaned in close, a playful smirk lining his thin lips. “But...the truth is, you don't _want_ to leave. Not really. You don't _deserve_ to leave.”

He backed away, bony arms stretching out in a mocking embrace, fingers splayed out in referral to the darkness around them. “Deep down, you know I’m right. You know this is where you _belong_.”

_He’s right—he’s right—he’s right—_

The tears sprung, unbidden, to his eyes, head downturned in shame. Varian was a fool to believe he could have belonged anywhere else. 

“You don’t deserve to live. You don’t _want_ to live. After everything you’ve done, the people you’ve hurt—death is your _only_ answer.”

Colors swirled in a mass of wind before his eyes, spinning and closing in until he was choking on the transforming air around him. It was spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning and—

It stopped. Varian squinted one eye open, then the other—gaze widening with the scene before him. He was on the Saporian airship, the barren kingdom of Corona lying far beneath him.

“He is right, Varian.” The young boy started violently at the unexpected voice beside him. He spun on his heel, black trench coat flapping in the cold night air.

It was Rapunzel. She stood still on the wooden deck, unaffected by the wind around her, hands not clutching the tilted railing as the ship rose in altitude—not in the way Varian’s white-knuckled grip was the only thing preventing his premature fall to the cobblestones far, far below.

“This was _your_ mess. You should’ve cleaned it up. You should’ve died on this ship, but instead you let me risk myself for your sake. You didn’t deserve that. After all you had put me and my people through, the only thing you deserved was to go up in flames with the rest of your mistakes.”

Varian’s face was tight with pain and a deep grief that filled his being at her words. His sad eyes never left her cold ones, even as the ship jerked upon impact and a burst of green encompassed their bodies. He did not look away as her eyes closed and her skin burned and she fell, lifeless from the ship.

She was dead— _she was dead_ —it was _his fault_ —it should’ve been _him_ —

_________________

When the smoke cleared, he found himself surrounded by icy walls of razor-sharp black stone. _Cassandra’s tower_. But how did he—?

“You could’ve saved me.”

She appeared from the hazy mist around him, voice reaching his ears before he could locate the source of it. Glowing blue hair embraced her pale face, matching blue eyes piercing his own, his very soul. She radiated power. She radiated hate.

“You could’ve saved me, rescued me from this hatred and this darkness. You know how the path left you broken and bleeding. How it had strangled you and left you for dead. You could’ve saved me, but you let me go down the same road.”

“N-no. Cass, I _tried_ , but—you wouldn’t listen—”

“You’re a villain, a monster. You tried to kill me. Why would I ever listen to you?”

She stalked towards him, black armor glistening in the reflective rocks around him. He matched each step with a backwards one of his own.

She scoffed maliciously at his retreat, “What a surprise. _You_ —running away from your problems. Just like you _always do_. It’s so much easier to run and blame others. You’re too much of a coward to face them yourself—letting others suffer in your place. It’s _your fault_.”

She was an arm’s length from him and still he stepped back, only to feel his heels dip in the nothingness behind him. He stood at the edge of her tower, back facing empty air. He had nowhere to run.

“It’s time you stop running, Varian. Everything is _your fault_.”

Cassandra moved a single step closer, gloved hand reaching up to grasp his collar. She leaned into him, blue meeting blue—one wrought with fear, the other with hatred—with coldness. “You could’ve saved me, but you failed.”

With that, she shoved her arm outward, and with it, Varian. He could do nothing to fight the momentum that carried his body over the edge, and he was _falling—falling—falling—_

He crashed into the dark void once more, every bone shattering with the impact, filling him with _pain, unbearable pain_. A mutilated scream tore from his broken throat, but it did not reach his broken ears. The cold, black waters lapped hungrily at his broken skin.

A glow—an orange glow—burned through his closed eyelids, calling his name until Varian pried his eyes open. A broken sob escaped his broken lips.

Standing before him in all its haunting glory was an amber tomb. And inside he could just visualize the frozen form of his father, hand still outstretched, expression etched with pain and fear and disappointment.

Varian stumbled to his feet, trembling hands seeking purchase on the smooth amber, searching for a weakness in the unbreakable structure so he might shatter one of his worst mistakes, and with it the memory of his fall into darkness.

But had he really ever fallen? Had he not always been submerged in the darkness? Had it not always been a part of him— _inside of him_ —lurking, infecting, _corrupting_?

The figure of his father moved so suddenly that Varian could not contain his surprised jolt. Quirin’s eyes flashed open, head rotating on his neck until their gazes met.

“This is _your fault_ — _you_ trapped me here. I told you not to touch the rocks, but you didn’t listen because you’re incapable of doing _anything_ right. It should’ve been you.”

“D-dad, _please_! You—you _can’t_ mean that! I never wanted—I never meant—”

“You’re nothing but a disappointment. I’m ashamed to call you _son._ You killed your mother, you killed me, you destroyed Corona. Everything is gone _because of you_. It should’ve been you.”

The words dealt a blow of such unimaginable cruelty. Varian stumbled back with the force of the punch, all air being sucked from his gasping lungs and he fell backwards, legs unable to hold his weight anymore.

His ears were not met with a splash of disturbed water. His body landed on something soft—on…dirt? His shaking fingers curled into the dry soil, panicked gasps echoing in the silence. Varian lifted his eyes to peer into the darkness around him, only to land on a reflective grey stone that sat innocently behind him.

A tombstone.

For—for his _mother_.

His mind had no time to process the sight burning into his retinas before the dirt began shifting. He did not move—could not move—as skeletal fingers covered in rotting flesh dug their way to the surface, followed by a thin, grotesque corpse. It rose higher and higher and, still, Varian did not move.

It was her—her soft, brown hair now deformed to a mangy mess, and her light, delicate skin now decayed into blackening flesh. _His_ _mother_.

She crawled across the flaky dirt, closing the space between them. Her body twisted in unnatural patterns, like some rapid demonic creature, rather than his mother. His dead mother.

She halted in front of him, rotted fingertips caressing his cheek and slicing into the fragile skin. “My son. _My wretched son_. You killed your father. You killed me.”

Varian wanted to argue—to spit back at the figure, to proclaim that it was not real. It was not _her_. But he couldn’t—he couldn’t say what was real and what was not anymore. He did not know.

He had no words left to defend himself. He could not defend himself against her attack. There was nothing to defend.

They were right. They were all right. About him—about _everything_.

“Maybe if you had been better, I would still be alive.”

And even though the pain was a constant throb now, Varian still felt the sting from her bladed words.

The ground below opened up without warning, and Varian tumbled through its gorging depths. He was falling, again—falling, falling—

A strong hand reached out, grabbing his throat to abruptly cease his descent. His soundless voice cut off in a strangulated gasp at the tightening grip. The arm retracted with him in its hold, reeling its catch in closer—closer—

It was him—it was _himself_. Varian was speechless, mouth gaping open as he stared into eyes that were his own. Into a face that was _his own_.

“You deserve this—this pain, this suffering. You’re nothing but a monster who is better off dead.” His own voice rang out in the empty air, assaulting Varian’s ears with the sound of truth. “It would be better for everyone if you were gone.”

His duplicate pulled Varian in close until the tips of their noses brushed gently against one another. There was a hint of pity, of grief reflected in his eyes. “You can’t change. You never have. You’re still that broken child who destroys everything he touches. Still a disappointment, still unwanted. _Worthless_. _Nothing_.”

The fingers loosened, thrusting outward to drop Varian to the ground. He lay there, shivering with the icy cold—with brokenness. He had no strength left to move—no strength left to fight the thoughts that carved into his skin and his heart. He was bleeding out but had no strength to staunch the flow.

Varian was weak. He was _tired_.

He wanted nothing more than to go home—but did he even have one? He wasn't sure what home was anymore. He wasn't sure what _he_ was anymore—what there was for him in life or in death.

To stay, to go—to live, to die? He had no answer.

He was lost. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD NEWS! There’s actually still a lot more that needs to be explored in this story before it can end...SO that means more chapters! I’m not certain how many anymore. I’m outlining for 7, but it might get to 8 (or more!?). Just all depends on pacing and where things go. 
> 
> Feel free to leave your own suggestions for what you might like to see. If it fits well with my current plans, I may just work it in there! 
> 
> (credit to Spiderman: far from home for _that_ line)
> 
> Stay tuned!


	6. —take me home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another chapter brought to you by writing-instead-of-sleeping. Enjoy!

_And I took you by the hand_  
_And we stood tall_   
_And remembered our own land_   
_What we lived for._

_(mumford & sons – after the storm)_

A day had passed. 

The scorching sun had risen and set on a kingdom for which the day was like any other. But for the tired bodies filling the infirmary, it was a dreadful day of prolonged despair—of dwindling hopes.

The sun had, now, long since sunken below the treetops, and with it sunk their bleeding hearts. 

Varian still had yet to wake. 

Quirin was resolutely stationed at Varian’s side, calloused fingers raking mindlessly through Ruddiger’s coat—the raccoon having found his way back to his boy in the last few hours. The man was silently grateful the furry creature had not been there earlier. Had not witnessed the treacherous scene that would now forever replay itself behind closed eyes. 

Eugene stood tiredly at the far wall, listening to the quiet, cautionary words from the physician, who had just concluded his umpteenth examination of the small boy in the bed. 

“The burr hole is healing very nicely with no current sign of infection—a small mercy. His pupils are also reducing in dilation, which is an extraordinary step in the right direction.” Galen glanced towards Varian briefly, prompting Quirin to provide them with his full attention. 

“I would recommend that, should Varian regain consciousness soon, he remain off his feet for at least another week or two to allow his stitches time to heal without excess strain. And with that, I am still exercising precaution on all fronts, of course,” he could not prevent the small, hopeful smile that stretched across his weary features, “but I do believe we may be on our way to the other side of this.” 

Eugene collapsed backwards against the wall, euphoric reassurance flooding his body at Galen’s words. A slightly hysterical chuckle bubbled past his lips as his eyes scrunched against the burning tears longing to escape.

Quirin seemed to entirely deflate, sagging into the chair as he bowed painfully over his son’s form. His shoulders shook subtly with the onset of cries he could not contain, the relief too powerful to bear. Trembling hands grasped limp ones in a tight embrace. 

Ruddiger, having abandoned his position in Quirin’s lap, did not hesitate to close the distance between him and his boy. His paws stroked pale cheeks softly, as though he expected Varian to wake in that very moment. 

He was left sorely disappointed as the bruised eyelids remained closed. 

The sound of dragging footsteps halted all joviality as the group turned to evaluate the newcomer. 

Standing hunched and hesitant, as though decidedly torn between continuing his path or fleeing entirely, was Lance, hands wringing nervously at his front. His eyes briefly met the three adults before they landed and remained glued to Varian’s unconscious form.

It was his first time seeing Varian since the day of the explosion—his first time _truly_ _seeing_ him. Seeing the damage that had been done. Seeing the mess he had made. 

_—his fault—his fault—his fault—_

Eugene placed a hand on the physician’s upper arm, gently guiding him towards the door. “Perhaps we should go inform the princess of your assessment, Galen.” 

The two silently departed, but not before Eugene paused to offer Lance a strong, prideful smile and a firm touch to the shoulder. The darker man could only return a tremulous grimace. 

The air between the remaining two was thick, the tension solid enough to be cut by a knife. 

Lance could feel Quirin’s eyes burning into his body, but he couldn't find the courage to yet face the one who would judge his fate—who would rule over the trial waging forth in his heart and deliver the verdict. Who would proclaim him guilty. A murderer. 

“I never had the chance to thank you, Lance, for coming to me so quickly the other day. I’m glad the news had come from you—from one of Varian’s friends. It means a lot to know he has you all to look out for him in times when I cannot.”

His sinking heart dropped like a stone to the bottom of his stomach, sitting heavier than a boulder. He could not hide the wince that twisted his features into something awful. “Don’t—please, don't thank me. I don’t deserve—”

But the words were so abruptly severed, lungs collapsing inwards as Lance’s wandering gaze at last fell to the floor at Varian’s bedside. 

To the everlasting stain of crimson that had not been—could not be—erased. 

Startled by the sudden silence, Quirin followed the other man’s stare to the darkened carpet. He had not forgotten it—had not been capable of drawing his own gaze away from it in his darker moments. 

It was a haunting memory. A formidable nightmare. 

“He—Galen had to relieve pressure that had been building up in Varian’s brain. Due—due to the blood. This—he had to—” Quirin cleared his throat, hoping to eradicate the awkward atmosphere and the budding tightness in his throat as the scene replayed itself in his mind’s eye. “He says Varian is getting better. He’s hopeful for a full recovery.”

Lance did not acknowledge the gruff admission, nor did he allow his heart to soar with the uplifting news. He could see nothing but the blood— _the blood_ —it was right there. There was so much of it! It—it had come _out of Varian_ —it was his fault— _his fault—_

“I’m sorry.” His words were choked, voice brittle and on the verge of breaking. 

He wanted it to—he wanted his voice to break and for the rest of himself to break with it so that he might not have to stand there, staring at what had been a puddle of Varian’s blood. It was on his hands—they were stained, they were dripping with it. 

He wanted them to break too. 

Quirin moved to brush his words away, brows drawn in confusion as he stood, but once the admission was started, Lance could no longer contain it. Could no longer hide from the guilt eating at his insides. He could not stand here—before Quirin, _before Varian_ —and deny them the truth. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—it’s my fault, _all my fault!_ I’m the reason Varian is like this—he—I messed up his machine and it exploded and it hurt him and he was bleeding and wouldn't wake up, even though we tried— _we tried_ —but—but—” his quivering fists clutched at the air around him, desperately attempting to hold onto something to prevent his floating into space—into nothingness. 

Everything—his thoughts, his spiraling emotions, the world—ground to a halt. It was still; it was silent. “It’s my fault. _I_ did this.”

Quirin did not move, not at first. He stood stiffly, eyes boring into empty air, unseeing. A thousand emotions flitted across his face—shock, dawning realization, _anger_ … 

Understanding. 

The older man pulled his chair away from Varian’s side, closer to its mate at the foot of the bed. He sat, body moaning in exhaustion, before indicating for Lance to join him. 

Lance was reluctant, heart wildly beating its protest at the idea of moving within reach of the former knight—of the man to whom he had just confessed his role in placing his son in the infirmary bed. But, at Quirin’s continued, imploring gaze, Lance accepted the offered seat. 

The silence persited, but it was loud. _Deafening_. It rang in Lance’s ears with the sound of the crowds jeering for his execution—for justice in his crimes. 

When Quirin, at last, spoke, his voice was low and reminiscent. “Not so long ago, there was a boy who wanted nothing more than to help the people around him. To make others proud of him—his father especially. 

He was a brilliant kid, unbelievably intelligent but too reckless for his own good. Most of his inventions backfired and only made things worse. The people began to view him as dangerous—as someone to be feared and avoided rather than just a kid seeking approval and pride.”

There was a pause as Quirin’s voice grew thick. His eyes were locked on Varian’s pale face, but they were a hundred miles away—lost in a haze of painful memories.

Lance couldn't help but wonder what it took to hurt someone so deeply. 

“His—his father…made a lot of mistakes in that time. Though he knew his son so desperately craved his affection and just those five simple words, he thought that by keeping him at arm’s length, he could somehow protect him.” 

The man scoffed harshly at the words. 

“Protect him from what?—I don't know. Maybe he had just been looking to protect himself—that by not getting attached, he couldn’t be hurt when it was eventually destroyed. Just like everything else he had ever loved and lost. 

"He had been a fool. And it nearly cost him everything.” 

Quirin’s gaze fell to his lap, brows taut with a forgotten torment that had suddenly found its way to the surface, rearing its ugly head with an ugly roar. “The—the boy worked tirelessly to do something good. To do something _right_. He had been warned time and again to keep himself out of matters that did not concern him—to not mess with things far beyond his comprehension. He had been warned. But he didn't listen—he did not understand the consequences, though how could he when his father had never explained anything to him? Had so carelessly kept him in the dark? 

"He tampered with things he wasn't supposed to and it backfired. It—it put him in danger— _it could've killed him_. Because he didn't listen. Because—because—dammit all he wanted to do was show me _he was worth something!_ I had let him believe I didn't care—that I was disappointed in him—but I wasn't— _I’m not_ —,” the words were strangled, cutting off with a sharp inhale. Quirin paused to recollect himself.

“My point is: he had made a mistake. He hadn't heeded the warnings and people got hurt. His father became trapped in an amber tomb,” a wry, pained smile deformed his lips briefly, “and he fell down a path of darkness and destruction, not hesitating to take out whoever he could with him.”

Lance was enraptured in the tale, hanging onto each word that floated by as though his fingers were clutching the edge of a cliff—the only thing keeping him from falling into the depths of his own darkened mind. 

“You—you’re talking about Varian and yourself. When he trapped you in the amber and nearly destroyed Corona to bring you back.” It wasn’t a question. Lance rarely thought of those times anymore, having witnessed the reformation in Varian firsthand. He was a different person now—matured, compassionate. _Better_. 

“You remind me of him, in some ways. Protective of the ones you love; strong and courageous—willing to fight for what is right. And, like him, you seem to have a destructive habit of harbouring guilt for things beyond your control.”

Lance immediately let his gaze drop to his feet, face shadowed with the onslaught of memories from these past few days— _his fault, his fault_ —

“Look at me.” Quirin’s tone was vehement, its earnest hands reaching out with invisible fingertips to pull Lance’s chin in its direction. “This situation is unfair; it’s _cruel_ —to me, to you, _to Varian_. But I am not angry with you—I cannot be angry with you. Not for this. I know, perhaps better than anyone, the disastrous consequences of mistakes. But that doesn't make it any less than exactly that: _a mistake_.”

Quirin turned his attention back to Varian, compelling Lance to follow. “Look at him. It hurts. It _hurts_ to see him like this— _I know_. He’s bruised and he’s a little bit broken, but he’s also one of the strongest kids I know. He’s going to come back from this.” 

The man—Varian’s father, Lance’s judge and jury—faced him once more, expression composed of unwavering earnestness and understanding. “I have already forgiven you. _He_ is going to forgive you. Lance— _you are not to blame_.” 

And if Lance finally yielded to his grieving heart, its rapid beat and his shimmering tears crying their unbridled lament—well, he had only these walls, the rising moon, and his blessed savior to bear witness.

And another day passed.

* * *

Despite the mild jubilation that had been served on a crystal platter two days prior with Galen’s reserved admission of hope, spirits were quick to suffer under the weight of Varian’s sustained unconsciousness. 

Rapunzel and Eugene were in a constant state of motion, flickering between her royal duties, his obligations as Captain, and their incessant need to be by Varian’s side at all times. 

The dark smudges lining their lower eyelids spoke a grave testament to their sore lack of rest. 

And, still, Varian did not wake.

Lance, for all the weight that had been lifted from his sagging shoulders following his admission to and profound forgiveness from Quirin, was still a scarce sight in the infirmary. He chose, instead, to spend his time looking after Angry and Catalina—to keep their own spirits high and bright. 

He had been repeating the mantra day in and day out— _not your fault—not your fault_ —but found the voice faltering with each sustained gaze he let rest upon the injured boy. 

The guilt was there with every visit to the bleak room and the guilt was there with every avoidance of or rapid departure from it. 

_He would be there when Varian woke up_ —his mind was adamant to convince himself of this. He couldn't do much while Varian slept, so he would be there when he finally came back to them.

Yet, still, Varian did not wake. 

Quirin had not moved from his post—had not once let himself abandon his son in this time of great need. Not like he had so regretfully done before. Never again. 

He had not been home in the four days since Lance had come knocking so forcefully, yet reluctantly—had been so transparently fearful to break such grievous news. He had not properly bathed, had not properly eaten, had not properly slept. 

How could he allow himself to selfishly savor the rich flavors of royal delicacies when his own son could not eat? How could he allow himself to insensitively cave to the callings of sleep when his own son was trapped in his own mind—comatose—and deprived of real, true rest? 

He did not know what was going on in Varian’s bruised and wounded brain. He’s not sure he wanted to know. 

For all anyone could discern, Varian was completely and irrefutably unconscious—unaware of the world around him, of the world _in_ him. But for Quirin—for the observant eyes of a parent—he saw the imperceptible grimaces that tightened Varian’s slack lips, he saw the miniscule twitches that shook his limp hands. 

Whatever was going on—whatever Varian was going through—could be nothing good.

Galen had not been pleased to recognize Quirin’s deteriorating state of health—had even threatened to inform the king in the hopes of initiating a royal command for the man to take care of himself. 

But Quirin knew the threats were empty. For all the concern the physician may have had for Quirin’s own sake, he would never truly force a father to leave his child. Not in such a precarious situation as this. 

Not to mention—Quirin doubted the king could, in good conscience, order such a thing. He knew as well as anyone the needs of suffering parents—the burning desire to, at all times, put their family above everything else in all aspects. 

After all, he had been the same those many years ago, first when his wife was ill and again when the princess had been stolen.

So Quirin sat vigilantly by Varian’s side. And he waited.

And, still, Varian did not wake. 

_________________

The day was dreary—a contemptuous mock of the storm of emotions raging thunderously beneath their skin. Rain fell in buckets, slashing unsparingly at the windows with a vengeance—with a hearty desire to break the glass into a thousand pieces and flood the room with their crystal waters. 

Rapunzel stood at the window, eyes closed and unseeing. She let the steady drumming beat sound its monologue in her chest, in her fiery heart. She imagined each tiny prick of the raindrops piercing her skin, replacing her blood with the flow of nature. 

Oh, how she yearned to stand beneath the weeping clouds, to allow the gusting winds to wash over her body and carry her far from this castle—from these monotonous walls and these bloodstained carpets. 

How she yearned to dance a glorious dance amongst the kaleidoscopic tears. Perhaps she would laugh—perhaps she would join them in their cry for mercy. 

As if sensing her budding despair, the soft paws of Ruddiger gently swiped at her dress, prompting the princess to lift him into her warm embrace.

The raccoon patted her cheeks, nuzzling into her neck much the same as he would do to Varian in his moments of doubt and distress. 

And despite the torrents of anxious desolation pervading the room, she couldn't help but chuckle at his antics. 

Across the room, Quirin paused in his ceaseless pacing to glance at the source of noise. A scant smile adorned his lips, but it easily crumbled under the weight of exhaustion marring his features. 

He was tired. They all were. 

Over the course of Varian’s stay in the infirmary, Quirin had grown paler and increasingly wearied. He attempted to maintain a tenacious façade, but the scaffolding was slowly crumbling with each passing day. He could not maintain this tough exterior forever.

It was only a matter of time before the crack grew too large, too deleterious, and sent the entire structure collapsing downward. 

And, at long last, it seemed as though that crack had reached the point of no return.

As Quirin turned to resume pacing, he stumbled—knees nearly buckling—and was sent careening into the walls, which let loose an aggrieved howl. 

Rapunzel was immediately at his side, bare feet crossing the floor in record timing. “Quirin! Are you alright?” Her voice was suddenly frenzied, wild hands moving to support his larger frame and attempting to guide him to a chair. 

The man sluggishly waved her away, as though swatting at an annoying gnat, but lost all credibility to his silent claims when the action only sent him staggering once more. 

Within moments, Galen was at their side— _did he have a sixth sense for when his skills were needed?_ —, assisting Rapunzel in lowering Quirin to the stiff seat. 

He once again disappeared and reappeared seconds apart, though this time carrying a vial of some sickly, green concoction. Without hesitance, the physician eased the tube to the drooping man’s lips, whispering soft instructions to drink the foul liquid.

Quirin relented, easily enough. He likely was too disoriented to even protest. 

“If you can, your highness, might I request your assistance in moving Quirin to a bed outside for the time being? This soon won't be the best place for him.”

“Why? What did you give him?” 

Galen couldn't hide the grim quirk that twitched on his lips. “I may have slipped him a sleeping tonic. I knew he would only last so long in his refusal to heed my request that he rest, and though I do regret having to resort to such means, it is only for his own good.”

Though she was loathe to admit it, Rapunzel found herself agreeing in her heart of hearts.

Once the pair succeeded in moving Quirin to his own bed to sleep peacefully, they stood watch for a few moments. 

“He’ll likely be out for the remainder of the day, based on how little rest I assume he’s had these past few days. The medicine works to induce total relaxation of the body—slowing his breathing and his heart rate to allow proper recovery from such intense strain and undue stress. 

"When he wakes, he will be entirely well again and certainly searching for my head on a silver platter.” Galen allowed a small, reserved chuckle to slip off his tongue, eyes mirthful despite their age. 

The physician gazed at the sleeping figure for a beat more, before turning his attention to the princess again. “In my expert opinion, your highness, I highly recommend you rest as well.”

Rapunzel could only offer a weak smile as she watched him turn and disappear into his office.

* * *

The darkness was suffocating, closing in on all sides—hands reached out to touch him, touch him, caress him. They stroked his cheeks and they scratched his arms until welts of blood rushed to the surface of his paper skin. 

He was embraced by shadows of fear and of loneliness. His hands trembled as they hugged his cracking body, seeking solace in the frigid air around him. 

This fear, this loneliness—it welled up within him and made him shatter. 

Shattered porcelain. That’s what he was—broken pieces of something that had been destined to break from the start. 

_________________

She was hurried in her motions, hands swift in their intent to wrap bright golden hair around his fragile form. 

She didn't know if it would work—the song had failed her in the past—but she had to try. Had to settle her resolve to heal his brokenness and _save him_.

The girl and the boy were alone—him unconscious and persistently _gone_ , her desperate and persistently determined. 

She feared that if she failed him now, _again_ , it might break her as much as it had already broken him. 

_________________

 _His_ voice rang out harshly in his ears, though he was surrounded by nothing but silence. _His_ smile glowed malignantly before him, though his eyes could see nothing but black. 

_He_ couldn't be right, could he? Did he truly have nothing to return to? Was he fruitless in his surety that he had ever belonged there? 

The boy could not accept that. Would not accept that from someone who had only sought to hurt him, tear him down piece by bleeding piece. 

So he stood on trembling legs, and he ran. 

_________________

The song was enchanting, a haunting melody that whispered words of hope and a yearning love. 

Her voice drifted effortlessly around the swaying walls, wrapping each dancing object and floating breath in a delicate embrace.

Her hands grasped his crisp shirt, as though striving to pass through his icy skin and reach his beating heart itself—to yank it to the surface and confess all her fears and sorrows and desires so that it might find the will to continue its beat. 

The tune drew to a close, sculpted lips careful in their formation of each word to ensure the efficacy of its power. 

But when the song stopped flowing and her eyes opened once more to find his still closed, she could not suppress the overwhelming surge of emotions that sent her shoulders shaking and eyes flooding.

_________________

His footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness of whatever hell he was in. They spoke of terror and of manic glee. A hysterical laugh broke free from quivering lips, soundwaves returning to deafened ears and lighting a match inside his wild heart. 

He was fleeing—he was escaping! He was doing it—he was—he was—

The air was changing. All at once, the pressure was swelling and falling, pushing and pulling like the ocean tides. His head ached with the sudden tension in the atmosphere, breaths wavering and catching on the heat that seemed to burn his lungs and stifle his senses. 

The dark water at his feet grew thick. What had only seconds ago been thin and fluid now felt viscous against his legs, impeding his ability to wade through it. 

The boy cautiously dropped to a knee, fingers dragging through the liquid that grew ever darker. It was no longer a simple black of lazy crystal motion—it was a tacky, tar-like substance that transformed into a dark abyss, threatening to drown him, to swallow him whole. 

His hand caught in the clotted viscosity. Rearing back, his blue eyes squinted in the dimming light.

His fingers were dripping red. 

_________________

“ _Please!_ It’s been days, Varian—and we’ve been waiting all this time.”

Her voice was frail, bound to break, as she gave in to her heart’s calling and simply begged for a miracle. 

“I don't know if you can hear me, but if you can, just know we are all waiting. We want you—we _need_ you to come back to us! Eugene, Lance, the girls...your father, me—we’re nothing without you. 

"We can’t lose you.”

And with the allowance of a single, exquisite tear that trailed its path down her ceramic cheek and onto his own, she left the room without a glance back.

_________________

A grating breath filled the space around him, sending his form into wracking shivers.

The blood— _t_ _he blood_ —it stained his hands, it coated his clothes, dripping and dripping and dripping—

It bubbled in his chest, a rising volcanic eruption of fiery liquid and ash that expelled from his red lips and flowed from his gushing nose—his thundering ears—his burning eyes. 

Varian’s form was plagued with a resounding agony—it ripped at his skin, at his throat, at his organs and heart. There was pain, pain—unbearable pain—unrelenting pain!

“I can make you hurt. I can make you _bleed_. And you can’t die because _you’re_ _already dead_.” The voice— _his_ voice—floated in the stale air, sending a cascade of shivers racing up his spine.

He—was he dead? _He couldn't be._ Death was a trickster—a con. This can't be how it ends.

His mother— _his real mother_ —he thought he would be reunited with her in death. But these words, these terrible jeers and this traumatic pain? 

This couldn't be it. He refused to believe this was it.

And, so, he ran once more—staggering feet fighting their way through the thick liquid below.

The voice laughed, the sound echoing off all nonexistent walls surrounding him and bouncing off invisible crevices. “You can run, my child,” the tone was high-pitched, mocking—sharp as a double-edged sword as it sliced into his chest and sent him stumbling. “but you won’t find your way out.”

But, still, he ran. His feet did not slow and his mind did not waver in the deafening thoughts _to run—to escape—_

From the shadows emerged the indiscernible melody, her ethereal voice cloaking him in warmth and protection. The black void around him seemed to relent in its darkness, giving way to even the smallest bit of light. 

It was enough. _It was enough_. 

A spark of pure white floated before him, just beyond his reach. It called to him and it sounded of her voice—Rapunzel. The sun. 

Death recoiled from the sudden source of brightness, of warmth that soothed the aching chill and challenged the scorching fire within Varian’s chest.

The light spoke to him— _of him_. It told him a tale of love and burning need, of heartbreak because _they were lost without him_.

They—they wanted him back? 

Other voices followed, emanating from his glowing savior. They carried the tones of his friends, his family, and they, too, spoke of love— _for him!_

Rapunzel, Eugene, Lance, Angry and Catalina—his father… they were calling for him, pleading for his return. They wanted him back—they wanted him back!

His eyes flashed with images of this glorious story. 

Building and inventing with Lance and the girls— _his friends_. Pranking and laughing with Eugene; seeking and receiving familial comfort from him, too— _his brother_. Conquering his fear to rid Corona of the red rocks; being hailed a hero by the kingdom— _his home._ Trading his blackened heart for one of rejuvenation; forgiving Rapunzel and her forgiving him— _his sister_.

Strong arms wrapping around his being, words of love and acceptance and pride filling his ears and swelling in his heart— _his father._

Varian turned his gaze to the figure lurking in the dark, still sinister but less so… He had given Death this power over him—had fallen into his scheming trap and was nearly lost because of it. 

But Death had been _wrong_. He was loved. He was wanted. He had a home— _a family_ —to return to and to be welcomed back with arms open wide. 

So Varian turned, not a single word spoken to his tormentor, and reached for the light. His fingers brushed against the radiating warmth, the dulcet sounds of music drowning out the crashing waves of turbulent, angry water that hacked at his limbs. 

It did not drown out the cloaked man’s parting gift. 

“You will realize, one day, that they do not truly care for you—do not truly want you. You will realize that I was right. And you will find your way back to me.”

* * *

  
  


In a faraway kingdom of the luminescent sun, in the room of white walls and blood stained carpet, the pale body of a slumbering boy twitched. Once, and again. 

And blue eyes opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we’ve finally made it—Varian has, at last, woken up. But does that mean things can immediately begin getting better? I wouldn't be so sure… 
> 
> I know several of you were guessing Quirin would be angry with Lance once the truth came out, but really...I just couldn't justify that here. Not with my version of Quirin, at least. I do think he’s angry and afraid—but with the situation itself, rather than anyone in particular. I also believe he sees the similarities between what happened now and what happened with the amber. It makes him better able to understand and forgive Lance. 
> 
> Stay tuned!


	7. With eyes wide open, my heart beats a bleeding beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so originally this chapter was supposed to include a lot of different scenes and events, but then I got super carried away writing just this one scene alone, so I figured it was best to just break it up. It’s a little on the shorter side in comparison to my more recent chapters, but it would have been way too long if I included everything I had planned. Plus, the next scene is more of a transitional period that doesn't carry enough weight to end a chapter. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: explicit language (1), panic attacks, self-hatred, brief suicidal thoughts

_What doesn't destroy you Leaves you broken instead_  
_Got a hole in my soul growing deeper and deeper_  
_And I can't take_   
_One more moment of this silence; The loneliness is haunting me_  
_And the weight of the world's getting harder to hold up_   
_Hold up, hold up._

_(seafret - drown)_

  
  
His eyelids fluttered with all the strength of a feather rustling in a gentle breeze, heavy and adamant in their longing to shield Varian from the cruel world for even a moment longer. 

He underwent several failed attempts to merely peer between thin slits, as each flash of blinding light that pierced his sensitive retinas only served to send his lids careening shut once more. 

It was a slow battle, but, at last, Varian succeeded—brows furrowed in confusion and residual pain, eyes wide open and flitting around a set of white-washed walls he did not recognize. 

The gears in his brain were rusted with disuse, spinning fervently to piece together the memories that appeared to have been snatched from his recollection. 

How did he get here? _Where was “here”?_

Before his very eyes, sparks of a fluorescent green and noxious smoke infiltrated his senses. A rushing, ignited heat encompassed him, setting his skin alight with a fire that turned his body to ash. He was burning—he was falling! There was darkness, there was heat—there was _pain!_ He was—there was—

Varian bolted upright, every fiber of his being screaming its protest as his head spun with a sudden sickness that sent his stomach tumbling over on end. 

_The Rooster!_ It—it had exploded when he lit the match. He had been blown back, but from there the visions darkened. What had happened? Why had—were Lance and the girls— 

With a sudden halt in its twisted dance, his stomach immediately soared into his throat to sever his access to air, lungs withering instantaneously with the realization that _he had no idea what happened to them._

Were they okay? Had they been injured? 

Was it his fault? 

Pale, shaking, gloveless hands pried back the restricting linen that rested across his lap as Varian shifted to swing his feet over the edge of the bed. His every muscle pulled with a message of pain, centering sharply in his skull and right leg. A fogginess crept into his vision as his head spun with the movement, but Varian gave it little thought. He had to know.

He had to know just how badly he had fucked up this time. 

The moment his bare feet struck the floor, his body soon followed and would have landed in a decidedly painful and unflattering heap had he not managed to save himself the indignity at the last moment with a precarious grab for the metal headboard. 

Varian’s leg throbbed with the pounding of a hammer striving to break out from beneath his very skin and shatter his bones while at it. 

His fingers fumbled along the fabric of trousers that weren’t his own, feeling the ridges that began around mid-thigh. _Bandages._

_What had happened?_

With his bearings only just gathered, the young alchemist limped heavily to the door, hands clutching the door frame to keep himself upright. No longer shrouded in his private room, Varian at once was able to recognize the infirmary, having been tied to those cots few times before following mishaps in his new lab in the castle. 

Though now that, too, was destroyed. Just like everything else in his life. 

The room was shockingly empty of any patients and of the physician himself. The silence served only to amplify the sounds of his dragging feet, sending the song of his pained grunts and wheezing breath into a rippling pirouette amongst the unoccupied beds. 

The music ricocheted off the only obstruction in its path—a bed not too far from Varian, himself, that rose with the blanketed form of a slumbering figure. 

_Not so empty, after all._

It was an inexplicable pull that lured him forward, weak legs sending Varian in an unsteady lurch towards the occupied cot. It was a man, his form eerily familiar. 

But who—?

As the figure came into focus, the air that circulated his body turned ice cold, plunging his heart and his stomach into a dark abyss of thorns that lacerated the fragile tissue and sent him bleeding. The broad shoulders—the thick brows—the shadowed jaw—his—his—

_His father._

Lying still, immobile, in an infirmary bed was his father. _His father._ It was his father’s skin that reflected so palely, his father’s chest that rose so shallowly. 

It was his father’s blood that flowed onto the floor around them—but it wasn't carpet...it was black and swirling and _cold_. The crystal waters beat against his skin, icy claws raking and scratching as the black turned crimson and the fluid turned thick. His father was bleeding out— _bleeding out—_

It was his father’s sinewy muscle that yielded to the bloodied sword lodged in his abdomen. And the other end was in Varian’s hand. 

“It’s your fault.” The voice, too, was familiar, though he couldn’t place its owner. 

The words—the words—they rang true in his heart. His heart that pounded in his caving chest, frantic to jump from his body altogether and be free, to be free of _him_.

Him: the monster. the murderer. 

Varian’s feet were a blur though his mind was paralyzed, eyes seeing nothing but the dark void and red water and gleaming white teeth. He ran—he ran—out of the doors of the infirmary, through the twists and turns of the castle corridors. 

He ran without looking back and without seeing forward. The darkness followed him, the frigid waters splashing under his feet and razor claws shredding into his skin. 

Varian’s own blood mingled with that of his father’s. 

He ran and he ran, mind oblivious to the direction or to the concerned looks of the castle staff. He ran and he ran, body numb to the pain pulsing in his leg. 

He did not see the crimson that bled through his pristine white bandage and did not see it drip to the floor beneath him—an impeccable path that followed him into the darkest recesses of his mind. 

—a yellow brick road doused in blood that would lead him to his doom. 

_His fault—his fault—it was real, he had killed his father—his fault_ —

The thoughts tumbled around his skull, the words a blade in the guillotine that would deliver his just execution. He deserved it— _he killed his father—it was his fault—his fault—_

Varian’s leg gave out, unable to carry his weight further into the endless maze, and he collapsed to the floor, body immediately curling into itself as his back pressed into the wall. 

His breaths were ragged, wheezing and difficult to draw in—the air a thick syrup composed of glass that ripped its way through his delicate throat and sent a river of blood surging down his esophagus. It puddled heavily in his stomach until he felt he would throw up. 

“ _You did this_. You killed your father and you killed your friends. How will they ever forgive you _now_? A monster. _A_ _murderer_.” The whispers assaulted his brain, echoing as though the voice were emanating from _inside_ him. 

Quivering hands grasped at his pounding head, fingers entangling in his knotted hair and wrapping around his ringing ears. But the voice didn't stop. _His_ voice didn't stop. 

“N-no, stop. Please—it’s not true. It’s not real. None of that was!”

“It wasn't real?” And though there was no cloaked figure, Varian could still feel the heat from his breath wash over his bare skin. “How can you be so sure?

After all, I’m right here, aren't I?”

Blue eyes snapped open as his lips carved out a contradictive “No—” but his vision flashed with the blackness in his mind. He saw the smoky mist of a swirling hood. He saw the bone-white claws gripping his limbs, fingertips dripping red. He saw the translucent skin pulled taut over sharpened teeth, stretched into a sinister smile as silent laughter echoed within his skull. 

He was—he was— _was he real?_

Was it all real? 

His mind flashed once more, images overwhelming his brain. 

Lance’s cold, dead eyes staring into his own. _You killed me. Why should you get to live?_

Eugene and Rapunzel slowly advancing on him, barely concealed anger and betrayal mutilating their once soft expressions. _We don't want you. We’ll never forgive you._

His father, bleeding out and drowning in amber. _You did this_. _I could never be proud of you_.

His mother. _Maybe if you had been better, I would still be alive._

— _his mother._ Had she been real? Had she been right? 

Black spots danced along his vision, head thundering with the blood pounding beneath his skin. He couldn't breathe—he couldn't breathe—

The explosion. Lance. His father. It had all been him—his fault! He’s ruined it all again, his only chance to be _better_. 

Varian was gasping, fingers raking at his chest and throat, searching for air that wasn't there. _It was his fault, his fault, his fault, his fault—_

Finally, they’ll see it! They’ll see _him._ They’ll see the monster he is and they’ll realize he was never capable of changing. He’s a menace, a danger! He brings destruction with him wherever he goes. 

They’ll abandon him again. _They’ll abandon him._ But—but he doesn't want to be alone. Not now. Not again. 

The ground beneath him was quaking, erupting with fire that encompassed his being and burnt him alive. He heard screaming—screaming— _where was it coming from?_ The floor split with a tremendous crack, opening into a gorge that swallowed him whole. 

He was falling, falling—drowning—choking! He couldn't breathe, couldn't see or hear. Static buzzed in his ears as his vision grew black. 

He couldn't feel—body numbed with pain and a coldness that settled over his heart. 

He was falling, falling—bleeding—dying! Surely he was dying. No one could feel this much pain and be alive. 

_Good_. He didn’t deserve to live, did he? Isn't that what they’ve all been saying? 

_A danger, a menace, a disgrace, a villain, a murderer, a monster._

_A monster._

Varian vaguely felt the watery strokes of raindrops tapping against his ashen skin. The cool liquid riveted along his cheeks, winding in the paths of his upper lip and dripping onto his tongue. The rain tasted of salt. 

_Tears?_

His breathing hitched with the cry for mercy arising from his lungs, still longing for a taste of oxygen. The fire continued its raging course, consuming him until he was no more than a pile of smoke and ash. His flesh melted off his bones as the putrid scent evaded his nostrils. 

He remembered the void—where Death had so cruelly tormented him. He did not wish to go back. Not to that wretched place. 

But he did not wish to stay here, either. Here—where his skin was burning and his lungs were gasping and his heart was beating its bleeding beat.

He did not deserve to stay here. Here—where he had killed his father and his friends, where he was a monster and unwanted. Here—where he was dying—

 _Dying—dying—_ was he dying?

Perhaps, he wished he was. 

But then— _a voice._

A voice, soft and gentle, called his name, its mellifluous tone a sugared breeze that ruffled his hair. A hand, light and benign rested upon his shoulder, meant to ground him to reality and settle his frenzied mind.

But it wasn't light and benign—the touch. It was _his_ touch. _His_ raking, bony claws that seized him and bruised him and violated him. _His_ touch that made him _bleed_. 

Varian’s frame rattled with vicious tremors, vibrating hands reaching out to slap at the touch melding into his skin, to tear it away so he could breathe and be free from its burning strokes. 

_Leave him—leave him—_

Varian waited for the claws to slice into his exposed throat once more and to send his blood cascading in a river to the floor. He waited for them to pierce his hollow chest and tear his heart in two. He waited for death at the hands of his tormentor. 

He waited for Death to end it all. 

Would it be quick? Would it be painless? He hoped it would be.

_But he didn't really deserve that mercy, now did he?_

Death did not come. 

It did not come, and, still, it did not come. 

His eyes flew open to meet the pair gazing back, wide and brimming with a pool of liquified concern. The magnificent green eyes that spoke of comfort and remorse and _hope_. Hope for him. Hope for a future.

But it wasn't Rapunzel’s eyes that held his own. 

It was the Queen’s. 

Her mouth sculpted words that fell gracefully from her lips, but they did not reach his ears. No sound could surmount the barrage of white noise that suddenly erupted in his head. 

The Queen—who he had kidnapped and threatened. Who had relentlessly tried to reach his barricaded heart, but had been harshly cast out with wicked words. Who he had nearly sentenced to the same tragic fate as his father. 

Wild blue eyes glimpsed the slow movement of her dainty hand as it reached for his shoulder. She meant no harm, he knew that, but he could not contain the violent flinch that seized his muscles. 

Her arm drew back just as quickly, the bright green eyes growing sad.

Varian’s heart clenched, though he made no move to welcome her touch. _Did she fear him?_ _Should she?_

“Varian,” her voice was muffled, but he could, at last, hear the tones of sympathetic consternation that floated between them. “It’s okay—you’re okay. Listen to my breathing, okay? Listen—breathe with me.”

Her hand reached out a second time, to which Varian did not react, encouraging the motion’s continuation. She gently grasped his own trembling fingers, splaying his palm out over her chest so he could feel the steady beating of her heart and the lulling rise and fall of her lungs. 

_In, out—in, out—in, out—_

“You’re okay. You’re okay. That’s right, just breathe easy, in and out. You’re okay.” 

The adrenaline that had rippled through his veins slowly ebbed, giving way to the pure exhaustion and pulsating pain now rearing its ugly head. His body deflated, heavy skull drooping until his chin rested against his own heaving chest. 

The melody of her voice twirled in the air and into his ears once more. “Everyone’s been so worried—you gave us all quite a fright. Perhaps we should head back to the infirmary before someone keels over from a heart attack.” There was a hint of uneasy laughter that carried those last words. 

“B-but, my—they—I—I can’t—” Varian’s eyes pinched shut in frustration, mind still racing and refusing to string together a coherent thought. “I—I c-can’t face them. It—it’s my fault. All my f-fault.”

Once the admission began, it could not be stopped. Salty tears roiled in his eyes until they spilled over, leaving tracks of misery on his face. Heat churned in his stomach and rose upward until his throat was clogged with thick emotion. 

“I—I can’t do anything right. I destroy everything! Ruin everything! I can't face them! I—I can't! They w-won’t forgive me—they sh-shouldn't! I don't deserve it. I—I’m a burden and—and a danger. A m-monster. Everything is my fault.”

Her subtle disconcerted composure eased into one of abrupt understanding, the transition catching Varian off guard. 

“It’s easy,” she sighed, gaze drifting downward—to a faraway place, “to find blame and guilt in the things that happen around you. To think: had you done something— _anything_ —differently, maybe you would not be drowning in such grief. That things would be better, _happier_.”

A small, desolate smile twisted her lips. It hurt to see it on her beautiful face.

Varian was overcome with the inexplicable desire to erase it—to erase her pain. 

“When Rapunzel was stolen from us, I believed it was my fault, somehow. After all, I’m her mother— _her mother_. I was supposed to protect her, as mothers do. 

"But I had failed. It was my fault.” 

“But you—there wasn't anything you could've done.” His voice was hoarse, throat stinging with the flow of grating syllables that irritated his sensitive nerves. 

Her smile grew more genuine at that, a slight huff of a laugh expelling from her lungs. “It is also easy, you see, to see reality when you are examining the world of another’s. To see the truth amongst lies when you are not looking for yourself.” 

Varian’s brows creased with confusion as he met her sad eyes.

“I refused to acknowledge the facts—though in my head I knew it couldn't have been my fault, my heart prevailed. It was easier to blame myself than to accept the idea that there was simply nothing that could've been done to prevent it. An accident—if you will.”

Her hand, still holding his, offered a comforting squeeze—a beacon of reassurance. “I blamed myself for something I could never have foreseen, just as you now blame yourself for an accident you couldn't have anticipated. For an accident that was _not_ your fault.”

Somewhere deep inside, where the darkness resided within him, a cruel laugh bubbled. It did not belong to him. But then again, maybe it did. 

_“She means only the explosion. She does not know the depths of your wickedness. She does not know how infected, how blackened, you truly are.”_

It was _his_ voice that spoke. And he spoke the truth. 

But despite it, despite the corrupting jeers that bled beneath the surface, her words were enough in that moment.

That moment: whether it was the abrupt shove into consciousness—the memories of darkness and of blood and of terrible claws and teeth—or how simply she seemed to speak with him, to forget everything he had done to her—

All of it—everything culminated in that very moment. And it was too much to bear. It was a pebble that fell on the already existing mass of boulders that rested upon Varian’s shoulders. 

He could endure it no longer. 

Great wracking sobs exploded in his chest as Varian heaved for breath, lungs drowning in agony and anguish. He gasped and coughed, only for more cries to convulse his frame. 

Arianna did not falter, did not once cease the soothing motion as her fingers rubbed his palm. Her heart ached for the boy—for the one who had once been a figure of her nightmares. The one who had threatened her, her kingdom— _her daughter_. 

The one who had suffered so tragically, so prematurely. The one who now sat before her, overloaded with demons and darkness that she did not know how to fight.

A kid— _he was just a kid._

She whispered sweet nothings into his ear as his lament surged on, pulling him into her embrace. He did not fight it, but he did not return it, either. 

Varian’s hands desperately clutched at his chest—his heart—as though seeking a tangible source of the pain so he might be able to rip it out and be free of it. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m s-so sorry, I’m sorry—” 

The apologies spewed forth, whether he meant them all for her, or one for every citizen in Corona, she did not know. Arianna simply sat with the broken child that wept in her arms until, gradually, his sorrow waned into whimpers that faded into quiet shudders until, eventually, he fell still. 

She had almost believed him to have fallen asleep in her hold when his quiet, gravelly voice sounded below her, “Why are you doing this? How can you sit here and comfort me after everything I’ve done to you? I don’t d-deserve your compassion. You—don’t you hate me?”

The question startled her, serving only to dismay her heart more. “I don't hate you, Varian. I never did.” A breath escaped her, murmuring its prayer to the stars above. “You traveled a dark road in the past, but you were misguided and in pain. Grief does funny things to us all. Even when I wanted to, I could never hate you.

"Instead I was angry with myself and with this kingdom—for it was us who let you fall so far. We were not there for you like a kingdom is supposed to be. That is one of my greatest regrets, and I am truly sorry to have let you down, Varian.”

Varian watched through tired eyes as the Queen rose to her full stature, the sunlight that streamed through the windows glistening off her form in a display of ethereal grace and power. He watched the same hand that had held his own so tightly extend out for him, once more. 

“Please, let me help you _now_. Let me be the queen I am supposed to be and make things right.”

He hesitantly accepted, allowing her to help him to his trembling feet. As he rose, he could see the faint splash of freckles that dotted her cheeks. He could see the sincerity, the _hope_ that swam in her eyes—for something better—for _him._

And just beyond her shoulder, lurking in the shadows that clung to the stone walls, he, too, could see the silhouette of a cloaked figure, watching him. 

Queen Arianna’s lips moved with words once more that were not heard.

In its place, echoing within Varian’s very skull, was _his_ voice, instead.

“You cannot escape me, my child, because I am _inside of you_. I am here and I will always be here—waiting. Waiting for you to find your way back to _me_. I have tasted your blood and your fears and it was _good_. I will have you, my child.” 

The thin lips pulled back into a lethal smile. Varian shuddered.   
  
“You cannot beat me, for I have _already won._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope I did well bringing Queen Arianna into this. I was disappointed that we never saw any further interaction between her and Varian in the third season, especially after he had been redeemed.
> 
> So classes are really starting to pick up again (online now) and I have 2 to 3 exams every week for the next four weeks, plus a 15 page paper. I'm definitely going to try to stick with my weekly(-ish) updates, but it might be slightly longer in between until the semester ends. I promise to do my best for you!
> 
> Stay tuned!


	8. I stand upon a crumbling ledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have SO much work to do for my classes but when that wave of creative inspiration strikes, you cannot ignore it. I spent all week waiting for the words to finally come to write this chapter and, at last, they are here. And, thus, I was finally able to bang this chapter out in about a day!
> 
> I guess it goes to show that you can plan the plot points and draft all you like, but until those words come, it’s immensely difficult to write at all.
> 
> (you're damn right I edited this thing to make it reach exactly 30,000 words)
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: graphic depictions of blood and violence

_And all these sorrows I have seen_  
_They lead me to believe_  
_That everything's a mess._   
_But I wanna dream—I wanna dream_   
_Leave me to dream._

_(imagine dragons - dream)_

The walk back to the infirmary was arduous, rapidly depleting Varian of any remaining energy he might have had. With one arm, perhaps indecorously, draped across the Queen’s shoulders while her’s stretched across his back to hold him upright, the pair made an unseemly sight.

The Queen: supporting the weight of the boy who had once kidnapped her. 

The boy: trembling, bleeding, and looking as though he would collapse with a single step more. 

The stretch of hallway that stood between them and their destination was slow to travel and not a word was spoken along its length. Even without his increasingly weakening state, Varian was too trapped in the depths of his mind to put on a conversational front. 

He feared that if he tried to speak, he would only dissolve back into panic.

At the end of the corridor—where a white-walled room and his dying father awaited him—the infirmary doors opened to reveal the unnerved figures of Rapunzel and Eugene, faces pale with worry and fright. With only a few steps in the approaching pair’s direction, however, their gazes met his own and—after a momentary bout of shock at noticing his companion—were instantaneously flooded with a powerful relief. 

Rapunzel was nimble on her feet, rapid in her approach to the limping boy, while Eugene followed closely behind. 

The sudden movement startled Varian into a grinding halt, throwing the Queen off balance when he stumbled backwards. His shaking hands flew forward, whether to will the cessation of their nearing steps or to protect himself from—them?—he did not know, but it was enough to prompt the couple to pause mid-motion. 

“Stop—stop, I—” A quiet growl of frustration slipped out at his breaking voice, at his lack of strength and conviction. “How—how do I know it’s really you?”

 _Because he had seen them before_. He had seen them _there_ —in the recesses of vast nothingness, in the void of drowning crystal waters filled with blood. When they had approached him, seeming so innocent, only for their features to twist into an ugly shadow of something he no longer recognized. 

They had spoken so callously, so cruelly. _We don't want you. We don’t forgive you._

Perhaps if he squinted, just under the surface of their illusory endearment, he could still see traces of their indifference, of their disdain. 

_You’re not welcome here. You don’t belong here._

His words were certainly enough to resurrect the underlying expressions of concern and confusion that soon dominated Rapunzel and Eugene’s countenances. “Varian—what…?”

_We want you gone._

“Pl-please, just—just—” _but how could he ask them to tell him something only they would know?_ _How would that prove anything?_

Death had known things he had never told anybody. Death had known things even he hadn't known, himself. 

How could he trust anything around him? He had no idea anymore what was real or just a conjuring of his own polluted mind. 

A hand on his, lowering the still raised, still trembling limb, pulled Varian back to the surface of reality. He could not hide the flinch that contracted his frame at the unexpected touch. Rapunzel was in front of him now— _how had he not noticed her renewed approach?_ —, her tender fingers reaching to cup his chin.

_You tackled your fears, Varian! I knew you had it in you._

She said not a word to him for a moment, green eyes peering into lost blue ones as though searching for something he wasn't sure was there. 

_Stay close, kid._

He could feel her gaze burning into him, seeing beyond the weak front he tried to uphold. It was crumbling and he had not the strength to stop its collapse. 

_We need him._

What would she think when she saw just how broken he was inside? 

“It’s us. I pro—” and, perhaps, she saw the indiscernible flinch that shook his features at that word. _Promise_. 

_You promised, you promised!_

_Sorry, princess. But I know firsthand how well you keep promises._

He hated that word. He hated what it reminded him of—he hated what it still made him feel. 

_I can't make any promises, princess._

“It’s us,” Rapunzel finished, lamely. 

Varian was thankful they didn't ask why he would think any different. He’s not sure he could explain it without sounding insane. He’s not sure he could explain it at all. 

The silence rippled briefly before Queen Arianna gently grasped his shoulder once more, coaxing his failing body towards the infirmary. She mumbled soothing words as Rapunzel quickly supported his other side.

Varian did not hear her whispers and he did not see the troubled glances shared between the princess and Eugene. His ears buzzed with a deafening static while his eyes flashed with replayed images of darkness and blood. 

—blood…?

The doors to the physician’s chambers were upon them as the thought came racing back—the entire reason Varian had fled to begin with. His heels dug into the carpet once more, breath catching in his strangulated airway. 

“I—I can’t—my d-dad—he’s—” but he could not form the words. The image painted itself across his visual field: his father bleeding out while he held the very weapon responsible—his father lying dead just beyond those doors. 

_You killed me. You’re nothing but a disappointment. You’re no son of mine._

_It should’ve been you._

“He’s worried sick about you, kid.” Eugene turned to face the young alchemist, strong hand reaching out for purchase on Varian’s arm, though faltering before he could make contact. 

A steady stream of images played before his eyes as he gazed upon the boy in front of him: images of a body lying so still and pale—images of spilling crimson and an unmoving chest. This kid—this kid that had once glared at him with such hatred and had threatened the love of his life—this kid that he now realized he would willingly give his life for to protect. 

Eugene could not recall the moment when those feelings had shifted, could not identify when this surge of protectiveness and—dare he say it— _love_ for this kid had arisen. But now, standing here and looking upon all that had almost been lost, he could not deny that he has grown to care for Varian, deeply. 

And he had almost lost him. 

“We all are,” the words flowed easily, an uplifting draft that, even momentarily, returned a spark of light to the blue eyes below him. 

It was enough. 

_________________

Varian’s dying heart was elated with Eugene’s clement declaration, a lighthouse among the turbid sea of emotions that raged under the surface of his skin. He cared. _They all cared._

It was enough—it was enough—

The infirmary doors eased open, flooding Varian’s vision with white and his core with a rearing dread. The memories, at once, were returned again. 

Exploding green. Unrelenting darkness. Swirling blood—dripping blood. Cruel laughter and cruel words, spoken from Death—from his friends—from his father. 

_His dead father._

It wasn't enough. 

But then—

Through the white and the incandescent rays of sun shining through the windows and setting everything in their path alight with a glimmer of glory, he saw a figure. He saw him. His father. 

_His not dead father._

The emotions were rampant, sudden and wild, in their arrival. His heart clenched and ceased to beat altogether as his gaze fell upon those same broad shoulders that now rose and fell with breath—with life! Varian’s lips drew back in what was, perhaps, at first a smile, but quickly turned into a grimace as his frame was wracked with silent sobs. He was not aware of his stumbling steps forward, mind seeing only this glorious sight before him.

Quirin was at his side in a second, secure arms wrapping him tight into his embrace, fingers reaching up to stroke his hair from behind. 

Varian’s quivering hands clutched at his father’s shirt, seeking solace in the steady rhythm of his beating heartbeat and in the lull of vibrations matching the inaudible torrent of reassurances being spoken into his ear. 

“I—I—you were d-dead and—I couldn't save you—it—it was my fault—” 

“I’m here, son.” Those words served only to wrench Varian’s heart more, throat burning with his cries and cheeks wet with tears. “I’m here.”

“But—but I saw you—when I woke up. You—I thought you were dead—my—my fault—” He could not still his racing mind, the scene mercilessly playing itself on the surface of his brain. _How was his father alive?_ He—he had killed him...hadn't he?

Varian’s eyes were screwed shut, face buried into the safety of Quirin’s chest. He did not see the widening gazes of those around him, did not see their features flood with unadulterated concern. _His fault?_

“I was only sleeping, Varian. I’m okay. I’m—what would ever make you think I was dead?”

The words were on the tip of Varian’s tongue, balancing precariously on the delicate cliff’s edge, raring to jump off and soar in the wind and be spoken aloud. To be free from his burdened mind, to beg others to help him bear this weight. 

But—he couldn't. He could not possibly speak out loud the horrors he had witnessed in the darkness. He could not possibly tell them about _him_ and the things _he_ had said. How could he?

It was insane! He would sound insane—they would think he had lost his mind! 

He could not speak the words because he feared doing so would make it real. 

He could not speak the words because he feared they would say Death was right. 

Varian only buried his head deeper into the warmth of his father, figure trembling with shock and pure exhaustion, until the sound of new, shuffled footsteps lured his gaze away from Quirin’s form. 

The physician, Galen, was pacifically approaching, body calm in its movements so as to not startle him. 

“Perhaps we could continue this reunion _after_ Varian is back in bed so we don't risk him collapsing and worsening his injuries?” 

Varian couldn't help the small smile that quirked his lips at Galen’s exasperated tone, all too familiar with the many grey hairs the physician claims he, himself, had put there these past months with his many trips to the infirmary (and his refusal to follow “doctors ~~orders~~ suggestions”). 

The reactions elicited by his comment were comical—eyes widened and cheeks flushed with embarrassment as they seemed to just now realize how awful Varian truly looked. His skin was ashen, making the dark circles beneath his tired eyes even more pronounced. And his leg—spots of red had begun to bleed through his trousers, no doubt a testament to the torn stitches hidden beneath.

Quirin swiftly bent to pull his son into his arms, carrying him back to his room in the infirmary, much to Varian’s chagrin. The boy, however, was too drained to protest, simply allowing his body to melt into his father’s comforting embrace. 

The adrenaline that had sporadically coursed through his veins was now gone, leaving behind such little strength that Varian was inwardly grateful Quirin had picked him up, for he was not sure his feet would have carried him any farther.

Varian was vaguely aware of Galen’s voice in the background, fussing over his unadvised adventure and damaged stitches and something about “undue stress,” but the undercurrents of concern and relief were not lost on the boy, nor was the sound of the hidden smile of affection the old physician was no doubt unsuccessfully attempting to suppress. 

His weary body was tenderly lowered as Quirin eased him onto the bed. Varian briefly saw a flash of his father’s face—his eyes clouded with worry and his lips drawn back in a strained, though fond smile, unnamed emotions decorating his features—but it soon gave way to a carefully transfixed mask of surety. 

Of fraudulent strength. 

His father was putting on a show for him. Hiding his true emotions _for him_. 

A part of Varian wanted to love his father for caring so much for him. Another, larger part wanted to hate himself for being weak—for making them feel as though they had to be strong lest he break. 

_Joke's on them._ He’s already broken. 

“Wh-what happened?” He asked in place of the raging storm of emotions threatening to burst forth. 

“You don't remember?” It was Rapunzel who answered, one hand clutching her mother’s while the other clung to Eugene—searching for a lifeline. 

“I—I remember we were building the Rooster and—and—,” Varian’s eyes expanded as that particular memory punched him in the gut once more, and with it came the flood of concerns that had occupied his mind before he had seen his father and run off to begin with. “Lance and—and Angry and Catalina… Are—are they—? Did I—?”

_Did I kill them?_

“They’re just fine, son.” Quirin’s baritone rumbles shoved their fingertips beneath the boulder resting on his shoulders and lifted it skyward, taking with it the noose that had been wrapped around his heart. 

“They—they’re okay?” 

“Yes, and I imagine they’ll be around to check in on you, especially since you’ve woken up finally.” Now it was Eugene’s turn to offer comfort, easing his way to the kid’s side so he could offer his shoulder a squeeze of reassurance. “You’re the one who took the brunt of the explosion. They were just shaken up with maybe a scratch or two. You—you’ve been out for about five days now.”

Perhaps, had he not been currently allowing his sapped body to sink into the plush mattress, that information would have startled him more. As it was, he could only supply a weak hum, eyelids already drooping shut as his frame leaned backwards. 

“We’re glad you’re okay, Varian.” That was Rapunzel—the sound of her melodious voice drawing forth a hazy memory of swirling music and guiding rays of light. “You can sleep now. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

_We’re nothing without you. We can’t lose you._

Varian was out before his head hit the pillow.

* * *

He was running. 

He was running and the crystal waters were singing the sounds of his frantic escape and it was dark. 

Somewhere in the distance a cackling laugh echoed, it’s chilling tone piercing straight into Varian’s bones and sending chills along his spine. 

_He had to get away—he had to get away—he had to—_

His feet caught on something solid in the black void below, sending his frame tumbling to the ground. The icy ocean bit into his skin so rapidly Varian was sure he was turning blue with the cold. 

He glanced back, and though there was no source of light in the darkness, the figures lying motionless in the swaying tides appeared to glow under a spotlight, staring him in the face as though specifically made for his eyes only. 

Bodies were strewn across the floor, surrounding him with the oppressing touch of blood on his skin and the sickening stench of death. Varian was no longer shocked by the sight, having seen their pale, floating figures enough times now that he’s come to expect it. 

That didn't mean it didn't hurt. That didn't mean he didn't still feel the unbearable agony that ripped through his chest and his heart with each landing gaze. 

His father—Lance—Eugene—Rapunzel. They were all there amongst the many still forms of Corona’s citizens and they were all _dead_.

 _Because of him_.

The thought rose unbidden from his snarling mind. Unwelcome, but not untrue. 

He felt the raking claws before he saw them—before he saw _him_. They danced their way along his arm, ceasing their motion as they reached his shoulder before settling into a tight, though non-threatening grip on the back of his neck. 

“Oh, my dear child—look at what you’ve done.” 

His voice was soft—placating—despite the terrible words being said. The other skeletal hand reached up to comb through his dark hair, sharp nails searing into his scalp until rivulets of blood began seeping down his skull in trickling patterns. 

“Why did you do that?” The question was spoken so indifferently, as though he were a parent merely scolding his child for a minor infraction. Varian would have laughed if he didn't fear the sound would turn into a sob. 

“I—I didn't—” but the sentence went unfinished because _he did_. Varian didn't have to see the reproachful look beneath Death’s cloak to recognize his mistake. “I did. I killed them.

Death offered a noncommittal murmur, fingers still tracing along his shivering body. 

“Because—because I’m a monster.” 

“Yes, my child. You are.” Varian could hear the content smile in his purring tone. He could picture the grin that stretched his translucent skin across fracturing cheekbones. “And do you know what happens to monsters?”

Varian cocked his head to the side, eyes still gazing upon the dead bodies scattered around him as his brows creased in an unspoken question. 

_His_ breath was hot and heavy in his ear as Death leaned in close, hands shifting to clasp each shoulder firmly. 

“They are punished.” 

All at once the claws tore down his arms, mutilating the fragile flesh into thin shreds until blood spilled from the crevices. Varian had no time to cry out at the shock—at the pain—before the cloaked figure threw him to the floor and wrenched him onto his back. 

The hooded face was a breath away, their faces locked in an immovable stare—Varian’s filled with fear and Death’s filled with utter contempt and sadistic pleasure. His teeth gleamed in the darkness, mere inches from his throat. 

His fingers reached out for Varian, gliding through the stagnant air in a meticulous path until they reached his jaw. The nails caressed Varian’s lips, twitching with glee, before they abruptly plunged into his mouth. 

The scream that ventured up his throat was severed as the fingers grasped his tongue, claws digging in until he tasted blood but they did not stop. Deeper and deeper they embedded themselves and the blood kept pooling and pooling in his mouth, but Death only tilted his chin back so the viscous fluid clogged in his throat. 

Varian’s eyes were wide as he stared into the empty sockets that held no eyes but looked back at him with a stare so malicious, so lethal, nevertheless. 

And then Death yanked his arm back—and with it, accompanied by a harsh tearing sound as muscle and sinew was ripped apart, went his _tongue_.

Crimson flooded his mouth, spurting through the gaps in his lips and trailing from the corners of his mouth. It dripped into a growing puddle on the floor and though Varian could not hear beyond the ringing in his ears, he could hear its steady dripping beat. 

His hands— _his own hands_ —were pulled upwards, the skeletal claws seizing his arms as they guided them to his throat. With no command, with no acquiescence, Varian’s own fingers were wrapped around his throat and they _squeezed_. 

He couldn't breathe—he couldn't breathe—

His airway was crushed beneath his grip, sweet oxygen fleeing his lungs, _and the blood_ —it continued to surge down his esophagus as his head was tilted further back. It filled his stomach and it filled his lungs. 

He couldn't breathe—he couldn't breathe and his hands tightened their relentless grasp and still Death leaned over his body. 

_Varian!_

His name echoed in the darkness around him, a pinprick of noise that prodded his sluggish mind. The voice was familiar, but he could not place where he knew it from. 

_Wake up!_

Black spots danced across his vision, the figure above him blurring into the empty void that engulfed their lonely bodies. His fingers were squeezing and Death was leering and his blood was flowing. He was choking and his lungs were burning and he heard screaming—screaming—

_Open your eyes! Stop—stop—breathe!_

“Varian!”

Varian’s eyes flew open to find a figure towering over him. The startled gasp that would have sounded from his throat did not appear, and it was then that the boy at last realized that no breath was sounding at all. 

His hands— _his hands_ —were wrapped unyieldingly around his throat, cutting off his access to air, and Eugene?— _Eugene!_ —was at his side, his own hands desperately yearning to pry Varian’s grip apart. 

All at once, Varian’s muscles went lax, hands peeling off his neck with Eugene’s harsh tug, and blessed oxygen infusing his lungs. 

His body is not so welcoming, the sudden flow of air feeling as an invader. Violent coughs ripped from his chest, breaths wheezing and gasping as Varian struggled to regain control over himself. He was vaguely aware of Eugene’s hand gripping his shoulder as a source of support, but he could not revel in the gesture as his frame was wracked with tremulous hacks, throat convulsing as he heaved, choking him still, though his hands were removed. 

Perhaps something in his face gave himself away—the draining of any remaining color from his skin, the widening of his eyes in recognition of the sudden rush of burning fire up his throat—but Eugene was quick to shove a nearby chamber pot under his chin just as Varian gagged. 

The blood— _the blood_ —he could still feel its slimy thickness in his throat, could still feel its heavy weight in his stomach. He could still feel the claws— _his_ claws—in his mouth. Varian peeked an eye open as his abdomen contracted once more, peering down towards the basin, but where he expected to see blood he only saw his meager dinner.

_Galen will be disappointed to hear the tragic fate of my first proper meal since waking up._

The thought stimulated a low chuckle, but it rapidly transformed into yet another heave, though he had nothing left to expel. 

“Easy kid, just breathe. You’re okay, you’re okay.” The older man’s hand was firm, but soothing as it rubbed along his shuddering back. 

They sat like that for as long as it took for Varian’s breathing to settle into quiet, rhythmic puffs of air. Not once did Eugene’s hand falter in its pattern, nor did his steady stream of reassuring thrums. 

“Are you okay?” His voice was a deep mumble, softened from his chin resting atop Varian’s head while the kid was held close to his chest, as though Eugene had aimed to minimize the distance between the harrowed boy and his lulling heartbeat—to offer himself to the boy as a source of peace and comfort against his demons. 

Varian did not respond, only moving to turn his face downward as his pale skin burned red with embarrassment and shame at having been caught in such a state. 

Eugene was having none of it. 

The new Captain of the Guard immediately shifted their positions until Varian was facing him, until he could settle his gaze over the still-trembling boy and absorb the reality of the sight before him. 

“ _Don’t_. Kid—don’t do this to yourself. You have nothing to be ashamed of, you hear me? _Nothing_.”

“Nothing? Really?” Varian’s scoff was bitter, eyes lidded with cruel derision. “As if I didn't just wake up crying like—like—like some _child?_ Afraid of my own _pillow?_ ”

 _“Hey!”_ The edge in Eugene’s tone was enough to send a jolt through Varian’s frame, eyes snapping up to meet the other’s. “I’m serious, Varian. Don’t you dare belittle what it is you’re going through right now, because _that_ wasn't nothing. You have every right to feel scared and emotional. You are allowed to be affected by this. It doesn't make you anything less.”

Eugene sighed as Varian’s gaze flickered downward again, no doubt lost in his own dark thoughts. “And hey—it’s not like you’re the only one who’s ever had nightmares.” 

“If you’re referring to Lance after he saw Old Lady Crowley crawling around like a spider looking for her popped blouse button—I don’t think that counts. Hell, I’d be surprised if anyone _didn't_ have nightmares after that.” 

“No, I—well, _yeah_ , there is that I guess. Bu—woah, woah, woah there, young man. Language! You’re like what? Ten years old?”

“Sixteen, actually.” 

“Ten year olds are not allowed to swear. And I will be having a serious talk with whatever _disgraceful being_ taught you that one.” 

Varian couldn't help the mild chuckle that slipped from his lips. “Actually, I heard it from you.” 

“You—wait, from me?! Okay, I guess we’ll let this one _minor_ transgression go, only because you’re learning from the best guy in Corona.” Eugene’s eyes quickly scanned the room, as though searching for some mysteriously lurking body, before leaning in towards Varian’s ear. “But perhaps we should agree to not mention this one to Rapunzel.” 

At that, Varian did allow a louder laugh, eyes shining with a youthful mirth that had not been there in the two days since Varian had woken up. Eugene’s features lit up in satisfaction as if he had fulfilled his greatest achievement. 

To him, perhaps he had. 

“In all seriousness, Varian, you are not the only one who’s been haunted by things in your past. She would never admit it—wanting to always appear bright and sunny—, but Rapunzel’s had nightmares in the past, especially in the recent months since escaping the tower those few years ago. And—and I’ve had nightmares, too.”

Varian’s eyes widened as his head snapped up towards Eugene once more. “You—even _you’ve_ had nightmares before?”

“Of course I have. Like I said, kid: you’re not alone in this.”

“I hate to break it to you Eugene, but if this is about your grey hairs—well, that’s not just some bad dream.” Varian’s elbow nudged the man as a half-hearted playful smirk adorned his features. 

But to this, Eugene did not respond, brown eyes instead drifting down to his lap with a weight that hadn’t been there a moment prior. 

“What—no snarky retort? No dashing to the mirror to make sure I’m lying? _I’m not, by the way._ ”

Eugene released a poor attempt at a laugh, the sound only echoing its troubled undertone. He was silent a moment more before, finally, his gaze raised up to meet Varian’s again. 

The boy was startled by just how pained it was. 

“I—I thought we were going to lose you, for a moment.” Eugene released a shuddering breath, eyes squeezing shut as vivid memories played across his closed lids. “In those first few days, it was touch and go and—and you had stopped breathing. You—you didn't have a pulse. Kid—Varian, you had actually died. And I—I was so _scared_.” 

Varian was struck silent as this man—this figure of immaculate strength—slowly broke down before his eyes. 

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had lost you. I don’t know when I grew to care this much, but I _do_. And now, when I’m lying in bed, sometimes I think about that night—that night when Rapunzel and I returned to the castle only to find out you were in a coma. That you had been injured when we weren't there for you.

"And—and I can’t help but wonder if it was _my fault._ ”

“Eugene…” 

“No—please, kid, just listen for a moment. I’m the Captain now, and it was my responsibility to be a part of your project. But, it’s also more than that. I’m _more_ than just the Captain. I’m your friend—your family—and it’s my responsibility to be there for you when you need me. And I let you down. 

"I think about how things might have turned out differently if I had been there like I was supposed to be—like you wanted me to be. I wonder if I might have been able to save you from—from _this_.”

Eugene heaved a mighty sigh, lungs attempting to expel the sticky emotion lodging in his throat. “So yeah, sometimes I do have nightmares. In the past, they had mostly been about Rapunzel—about losing her. But now—” his sad eyes bore deep into Varian’s cerulean ones, an unspoken message relaying between the two, “—now I also sometimes see you. I see myself _losing you._

"You’re not alone in this, Varian. Whatever it is you’re going through—you’ve got people who are here for you. _I’m here for you_.” 

A smile—perhaps not a happy one, as they had often shared before, but one that was now born of a shared grief and understanding—passed between them. And as Eugene moved to leave the bed so Varian could try for some more sleep, a hesitant hand reached out to clasp onto the older man’s wrist. 

“Will—will you stay with me? Tonight?” 

Eugene’s heart soared with a million unspoken elations, throat constricting with a budding emotion that sprung subtle tears to his eyes. A strangled chuckle slipped from his lips as they drew back into a tender smile. 

“I’d be happy to.” 

_…………_

No other nightmares plagued Varian’s mind that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m gonna spoil it right now: we are FINALLY going to get our Lance+Varian reunion scene, which is now scheduled for the next chapter. It was supposed to happen in this one, but it got pushed back. I’m sorry. 
> 
> BUT I hope this bit of Team Awesome angst-fluff-hybrid satisfied you! I got so carried away writing their scene. Seriously. Once I started, I just got sucked into some kind of vortex in which all my family feels came pouring out. I hope I did them justice. Especially Eugene because this is a heavier story with not much room for comedy, which I feel is typically how he handles emotional stress. I tried but still needed to give him a deeper characterization as well. 
> 
> Anyway, there is a LOT of SHIT about to go down and I can’t promise it’s going to be anything good. We are still well in the midst of angst. Believe it or not, guys, we have NOT yet reached rock bottom for Varian, which seems a little insane based on everything that’s happened already. Just you wait!
> 
> (and lol—remember when I started this off as marked for 5 chapters only? yeah we are already drafted for double that.)
> 
> Stay tuned!


	9. Beneath my feet the chasm opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we are over halfway finished, I just want to send out a massive thank you to everyone reading, liking, and/or commenting on this. You are what keeps me going. Really. Your support means so much to me and I can never be appreciative enough. 
> 
> Side note: I added a table of contents to the beginning if you were curious about the random jump in chapters. It is entirely subject to change, as chapters tend to get rearranged when I actually fill in the details. 
> 
> And, yes, I intentionally left out the notes for the final chapter—no major spoilers from me! 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: explicit language (4)

_Hold on_   
_Hold on to me_   
_'Cause I'm a little unsteady_

_(x ambassadors - unsteady)_

It was under the glow of a blue moon and in the company of a warm summer breeze that two lovers talked. 

Standing there—high on the balcony overlooking the kingdom as it settled into sleep—it was easy to surrender all the secrets of the heart. It was easy to feel safe in speaking aloud one’s worst fears, as though they were somewhere separate from reality. 

As though they were not speaking about a rapidly deteriorating friend who slept just down the hall. 

Only a couple of nights ago, Eugene had been (rudely) awakened by the slapping of frantic, furry paws on his cheek. His attempt to roll over as a signal for whoever was disrupting his beauty sleep to—politely, mind you— _fuck off_ was countered with a stinging bite to his left ear. 

The Captain had immediately sprung up, silk sheets falling to the side as some not-so-polite words raced to the edge of his tongue. He had faltered, however, when he noticed the culprit was none other than Ruddiger—and that the raccoon was gazing at him with eyes widened with concern and fear. 

Putting two and two together was not so difficult, even when his mind was still foggy with sleep. 

So he had raced down the hall to the room Varian had been moved to after Galen deemed him well enough to leave the infirmary (though with _strict_ orders of bedrest until his concussion and stitches healed further). 

His legs pumped strenuously in the silence of the night, raccoon hot on his heels, as his mind whirled over the realization that Varian was alone—that Quirin had left only that morning under the weight of his duties as Old Corona’s leader and with the reassurance his son would be well watched over. 

How could he have been so _stupid?_

Reaching the fateful room at last, Eugene had thrown the door open, heart beating a wild beat as he prepared himself for the sight that lay beyond its threshold. Perhaps Varian’s weak leg had given out on him in a foolish attempt to walk— _again_ —and he would simply be sitting there, unable to pick himself back up. Or perhaps he had hit his head on the way down and his already bruised skull, sensitive to further damage, had split open even more and he would be lying in a pool of his own blood. 

Unable to be saved. Because Eugene had left him alone—had been stupid— _had been too late._

What he had not been prepared to see, however, was the boy still in bed, seemingly fast asleep. And he had not been prepared, upon closer inspection, to see the boy’s hands wrapped tightly around his throat as his lips turned blue. 

It had been a frightening sight, one that had vividly reappeared with every blink for the next two days. 

So, now, here he stood, as he and Rapunzel allowed the glimmering moonlight to wash over them. He found his eyes straying to the area of the courtyard where Varian had first revealed his new contraption. Where his words had claimed he needed the Captain to be there—but, also, where his tone had admitted it was really _Eugene_ he wanted more. 

And from where Eugene had walked away—had left the kid behind for someone else to deal with. 

It was, perhaps, his greatest regret to date. 

The quiet chirping of Pascal from his place on the princess’s shoulder pulled Eugene out of his thoughts and he glanced over to meet Rapunzel’s concerned gaze. The moon reflected brightly in her eyes as her soft hand reached over to gently grasp his own. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Underneath the airy tone, he could hear her anxiety—over Varian, over himself. 

He hated making her worry. 

“I’m sorry blondie...just—just thinking about the kid, I guess. I—” Eugene could not find the strength to maintain eye contact with her as his fears began to spill out. She was so strong, even when she was afraid. He always fought fear with humor, but this wasn't a situation he could laugh at and fix. 

“I’m worried about him. About what he’s been through.” 

“I know what you mean. But Eugene, he’s going to be okay. I’m sure of it.” 

The man wished he could share her optimism—wished he could believe so strongly in happy endings. But something about what he had seen in the kid’s eyes when he awoke with his own hands strangling him—there was something going on that Eugene didn't think would heal in the same time as his physical wounds. 

There was something more happening that Varian wasn't telling them about. 

“I want to believe you, sunshine—I do. But you didn't see what I did. He—Rapunzel, he was choking himself _in his sleep_. When he woke up, he was so scared for a moment that he made himself physically _ill_.”

Eugene ran a hand stressfully through his hair, anguish written plainly across his face. “And—and you’ve seen how he’s been since he woke up. He’s not sleeping, he’s barely eating—he looks worse _now_ than when he was in a coma!”

Despite the pain that wrought her own features, Rapunzel pulled Eugene into a tight hug, though her touch—for once—did little to alleviate his fears. “I know. I know—I’ve seen it too. And I—you’re right. Something happened while Varian was out that he won't tell us about. And it _hurts_. It hurts that he won't come to us about it—that he doesn't think he can come to _me_ about it.

“After everything we’ve been through, I had hoped maybe he would learn to trust me again. I want him to feel safe with us, to see how much we care! But—but he won't let me in and—and I don't know what to do. I just wish he would talk to me.”

As her mouth opened once more to continue, her throat tightened around the admission about to spew forth, shame coloring her cheeks. “But—but Eugene...I’m also a little afraid to talk to him.”

The captain could not hide the jolt of shock as his eyes quickly met hers. However, any remark of disbelief dissipated rapidly as he caught sight of the tears budding at the corners of her eyes. 

“I’m afraid of what will happen if he comes to me—if he looks to me as though I can fix him. I’m afraid that I would promise him I could. I—I already broke a promise to him once, and we saw what happened. _It destroyed him_. I can’t break another promise. 

“But I don't know how to help him. I don't know if I _can_ help him.”

It was a crushing feeling—to realize Rapunzel felt just as lost as he did. To realize Varian was suffering so greatly and they were _right there_ , but so helpless. 

“Sunshine...I—I don't know how to help him either. But if there’s one thing I do know with _every_ fiber in my body, it’s that you never give up on your friends. You didn’t give up on me, you haven't given up on Cassandra yet—and I know you won't give up on Varian either. And I love you _so much_ for that. Whatever is going on, we will figure it out. We will help him heal.”

A sad, but hopeful grin stretched the corners of Rapunzel's lips, eyes shining with such love for this man beside her—for the one who had always been there for her. There was not a star in the sky she did not thank for sending this man to her those years ago. 

She didn’t know where she would be today without him. 

Together. They would do this together. They would help Varian—their little brother— _together._

But, just as every other beautiful moment to ever occur, it was bound to break. 

A sound, quiet at first, rippled through the air around them, dancing through the cracked window just to the left of their balcony. It was out of place—not something often heard in the peaceful castle. Especially at night. 

As the volume rose and its origin struck, the two lovers’ eyes widened to the size of saucers and flooded with fear. 

_Screams_. 

And they were coming from Varian’s room.

* * *

Large hands held his shoulders unforgivingly, fingers digging in until Varian was sure they would leave bruises on his soft flesh. 

He didn't know where they were leading him—didn't even know who was leading him forward—but every attempt to ask or halt his steps was met with a harsh shove, effectively shutting him up. He was loath to admit it, but Varian was scared. 

He hadn't felt this way since he had been taken prisoner two years earlier. 

The ground beneath his feet felt like cobblestones and the buildings around him looked familiarly like Corona’s shops, but the air was thick—hazy enough to blur his surroundings into indiscernible shapes. 

Through the mist the shapes began to move, to morph into figures of people—hundreds of shadowy bodies that expanded into the fog for as far as he could see. The static in his ears slowly ebbed to give way to the crying jeers that emanated from the crowd. 

“Traitor!” 

“Villain!”

“He should pay for his crimes!”

Their faces came into focus—the people of Corona. The people he had betrayed and hurt. But also the people he had reconciled with—had laughed with, had grown with. 

Hadn’t they forgiven him? 

“He doesn't belong here! He doesn't deserve to be here!”

“He doesn't deserve to live!”

_“Monster!”_

His toes dipped suddenly in the space before him and, all at once, the fog seemed to lift. He was standing on a platform in the center of the courtyard. In all directions, the flood of bodies spanned for miles—weaving in and out of the kingdom’s streets, torsos and heads hanging out of windows as they strained for a better view. 

A better view of _him_. 

The relentless pair of hands on his back prevented him from turning around, stone-cold fingers reaching up to turn his head forward once more, until his eyes locked with the figures in front of him. 

Rapunzel, Eugene, and Lance stood tall, seeming to tower over him though he was raised above them. Their gazes were hard, piercing through his skin and prodding at his stomach, wringing the organ until he felt he would be sick. 

“Rapunzel? Wha-what’s going on?” 

She did not answer and her gaze did not falter. They stared and they continued to stare, lighting his skin ablaze and burning the pale flesh to ashes. 

Movement to his side drew Varian’s attention, neck fighting the grip of the hands behind him. Frightened blue eyes widened as they landed on a large, hulking figure closing in. 

_His father._

“Dad? Dad! What’s happening? ...Dad?”

But just as the princess and captain gave no response, Quirin too remained silent, as though he hadn't even heard Varian speak. The man simply continued his path until he stood before his son. 

The boy could not tear his gaze away from the dark brown eyes that met his own. He could not comprehend the absolute emptiness in his father’s face—the indifference to his son’s pain and confusion.

He had not seen this side of his father for a while. 

Not since before the amber—back when he was still some screw-up of a son, perpetually letting his father down.

“That’s funny—you think you’ve somehow _changed_?” Varian could not see the figure, but _his_ words still echoed inside his head. 

Death’s voice never left—the weight of his presence always sitting heavily in the back of his mind. But the weight—he had grown used to it. He did not welcome it, but he feared what it would be to live without it now. 

He feared he would float away if it were to disappear. 

“You think you’ve somehow become better? As if you’re not still that same disappointment you’ve always been? You _always_ will be?” 

Tears pricked at Varian’s eyes, but they did not fall. He would not let himself be weak. 

The sudden feeling of course material on his skin drew Varian back from the depths of his thoughts, the deafening noise around him startling into focus once more. 

Quirin’s fingers were fiddling at the base of Varian’s neck until they moved to pull the loop of a thick rope over his head. 

_A noose._

The air caught violently in Varian’s throat, heart clenching as it turned immediately to ice. His mind whirled in its attempt to understand what was happening, though it failed miserably. His dad—was his father really—a—a noose? 

“Dad?” He hated the whimper in his voice, how it trembled wretchedly with fear and grief. 

He—he wouldn't. 

_Would he?_

“This is for the best, Varian,” the voice crooned in his ear—but—but this wasn't Death’s voice anymore. It was his father’s. 

“I put up with you much longer than you deserved. All this time—you were such a disappointment. I was patient. I tried, son, but I knew you were always going to let me down. _This_ is what you deserve.” 

Briefly, though somehow still endlessly, their eyes met again. Father and son were locked in battle as one heart cried out to the other, while the other merely turned away. 

The cavernous lines on the man’s forehead deepened as his brows furrowed, dark eyes not backing down under the pleas for mercy that tumbled forth from blue. Flashes of blood-ridden water and life-leeching amber washed over the boy’s vision, morphing into the figure of a man—arm outstretched and expression etched in fear and pain as he succumbed to the suffocating stone. 

Quirin’s strong hands moved their grip to Varian’s shoulder, encouraging a bone-deep shudder to wrack the youth’s small frame. Leaning in close to the boy’s ear, father offered son four last words to follow him into darkness, his tone callous and cruel. 

“It should've been _you_.” 

And with that, he departed with a forceful shove, sending Varian forward off the platform until the rope tightened in opposition.

He felt the bones— _his neck_ —snap with no rebuttal, yielding easily to the verdict as though even his body agreed. 

He fell quickly into darkness.

_________________

_Screaming—screaming—_

Loud, raucous screams penetrated the air as they shook with pure terror and anguish. 

Varian’s sleeping form—sprawled across the desk in his guest bedroom—twitched with increasing vigor until thin limbs were thrashing in defense against an unseen opponent. The tender flesh of his throat grated under the strain of his bellowing cries. 

His mind was not yet free from the darkness—not yet escaped from the realm of execution, and so the sudden touch of a hand to his convulsing back only sent his panicking body further into duress. 

His muscles seized as fingers grazed his neck— _his broken neck_ —the neck that had only seconds ago snapped in the embrace of Corona’s gallows. Every fiber shrieked its urgency to get away—get away— _get this thing away—_

A flailing arm harshly struck at the executioner behind him just as Varian’s eyes opened and his body jolted upright. 

Behind him stood no executioner—no faceless man calling for his death. Neither stood his emotionless father as he shoved his son into darkness. 

It was Rapunzel, eyes wide as a shaking hand slowly rose to the reddening mark on her cheek that would surely bruise by morning. Eugene stood by her side, shock (and anger?) tainting his shadowed profile. Reality very rapidly punched the alchemist in the gut, its fingers tightening over his shriveled lungs as he realized just what he had done. 

He had just _hit_ Rapunzel. 

And in the darkness of the room, he even thought he saw a flash of fear that flitted across her face as they met each other's gaze. 

The sound of his chair crashing to the floor disturbed the fragile silence that had settled as Varian stumbled to his feet, shuffling backwards and away. His hands trembled as his breath wheezed. 

He had hit her—he had _hurt_ her—he—he—

He was dangerous—a monster!

The sounds of the princess and captain’s woeful cries for him to wait fell on deaf ears as Varian raced for the door. He did not see their tears of sorrow and concern. He saw only his father’s cold gaze and their betrayed expressions and the mark of his destruction coloring Rapunzel’s skin. 

He had to get away—had to get himself away before he hurt anybody else. 

The rational portion of his brain realized how similar this was to when he had first woken up—how he had assumed to worst, panicked and fled. He _knew_ Rapunzel and Eugene weren't actually mad at him—would never truly hate him for this. 

So why was it such a struggle to convince himself?

The hallways were a blur, his bare feet silently slapping against the ground and leaving behind a trail of his frenzied despair. He was grateful for the night, as the corridors were now empty in this section of the castle. 

Varian paid no mind to where his body led him, mind too engrossed in the brewing storm beneath his skull. He ran and ran, through twists and turns, until he reached a familiar hall. 

The library. 

It was a natural place in which Varian had often sought a means to escape when life became just a little too much for him. As a young boy with more enemies than he had friends and a father that often made him feel ashamed of everything he did, he had found comfort in books—a source of peace in the wake of nightmares, a source of companionship under the weight of Quirin’s withering gaze. 

The books were his friends—had always been his friends. They were the one thing that had never hurt him. 

The large wooden doors eased open as his lithe frame slipped through, heart immediately slowing as his lungs expanded with a deep breath in the musty air—traces of old paper and earth filling his senses. The brawny bookcases rose well above his height, but it did not make him feel small—not in the way that most people did. Rather, their towering wooden frames offered an embrace of serenity—like branches of a massive oak holding him close in its tranquil arms. 

He could breathe easier here. He could think clearer here. 

He was safe here. 

That is, until Varian rounded the corner and a hush immediately washed over the room in place of the quiet, lulling conversation he had not previously noticed. 

_Stupid—stupid—stupid—_

Seated in a tight circle of cushioned chairs and surrounded by a pile of open books were Angry, Catalina, and Lance. The laughter died on their lips as the three caught sight of Varian, the temperature in the room dropping enough to raise the hairs on Varian’s arms. 

He had not seen them since the explosion. 

Perhaps he was still in the throes of anxiety following tonight’s nightmare and violent awakening, or perhaps his already high-strung emotions were finally toppling with this sudden, unexpected confrontation, but Varian felt his foundation begin to crack. 

His hands trembled at his sides, breath catching in his throat as he continued to stare at the figures before him—at the people he thought he may have killed—at the people who had not come to see him since he had awoken. 

Were they avoiding him?

Were they angry with him? 

_Though, didn't he deserve it?_

The waver in his face must have been obvious enough, as Lance quickly jumped to his feet, pulling the girls up with him. The rapid movement made Varian flinch—a detail that unfortunately did not escape the darker man. 

“Say, girls—why don't you two head down to the kitchens to whip us up a nice late night snack? I’m thinking cocoa and all the sweets you can find!” 

The narrowing of Angry and Catalina’s eyes was enough of a tell to indicate they knew exactly what Lance was doing, but with another cursory glance at their beaten friend, they silently agreed to play along and padded their way to the doors.

Angry offered Varian a subdued smile as she passed and a mellow, “Nice to see you up and about, V”, though Catalina stopped to give the older boy a gentle squeeze on the arm. “I’m glad you’re doing better, Varian. Maybe—w-when you’re feeling up to it—you could join us for hot cocoa?”

Varian could only grace the girl with a shaky nod, eyes not quite able to meet hers. 

He had not been prepared for this—not been ready to face them. And certainly not like this—stumbling upon them and disrupting what had obviously been a fun moment. He had spent the last several days wondering where they were, though too afraid to voice his fears. 

He didn't want to make them feel obligated to visit him. 

He didn't want to be told they were staying away on purpose. That they didn't _want_ to see him. 

And now—now he had thrust himself ungraciously upon them. Now Lance was sending the girls away so they wouldn't be caught in the crossfire as he told Varian just what he thought of him now. 

How he was a danger to them. How he was a menace. 

How he didn't want Varian to ever show his face around them again. 

But when he peered back up at the imposing figure before him, blue eyes gazing beneath dark lashes and body tense in anticipation of the brutal blow that was soon to be served—

His vision was obscured by darkness as thick arms engulfed his frame. Lance—Lance was... _hugging_ him? 

Varian froze in place, arms raised halfway in the air out of shock though they did not fall onto Lance’s back. He did not return the hug, too startled and overwhelmed by the turn in events. 

After a moment, the man pulled back, though his expression seemed sadder now. Had he been expecting Varian to return the affection? Was he disappointed in him? Had Varian really managed to already screw this up two minutes into their reunion? 

Perhaps when Lance turned away, Varian could make a break for it—pretend this had never happened and do it all again later—do it all _better_ —when he didn't feel as though he was about to vomit a puddle of tears and indecipherable feelings. 

What he really needed was some chemicals—any explosion, really. 

Blowing stuff up— _intentionally_ , that is—always made Varian feel a little better. Science, engineering, chemical reactions...he could deal with that. 

This stupid soup of emotions stewing in his gut that made _no fucking sense_ —well, he certainly didn't have a PhD in self-expression and healthy coping habits. 

_What a load of bullshit._

Maybe he could blow those up instead and finally be free of them. 

Just as Varian decided escaping was his best option and began to inch back in the direction he came, Lance spoke up. 

_Dammit_. 

“Do—do you want to sit? No offence, little man, but you like you might pass out where you stand. You’d think after all the sleep you’ve had, you’d be pretty well rested!” His joke fell flat, weakened by the uncertainty in his voice and the anxiety written plainly across his face. 

“I had a nightmare.” 

“Oh…” Lance’s face only fell further, all traces of his (failed) attempt at lightheartedness wiping clean as concern and...guilt? wrought his features. 

_Great job, Varian._

“I—I—it wasn't that bad—” as if he hadn't dreamt about his father delivering his own execution while everyone watched on with glee “—I just...I needed some air.”

“Right...because the stale library has loads of fresh air as opposed to the entire outside of the castle.” 

Varian could not help the offended splutter that spilled from his lips, as if Lance had any room right now to judge his being awake. “Well—well what about you? What are you doing up at this time?” 

The look of pride that immediately adorned Lance’s face was unexpected—and, beneath it—there was even a tone of parental affection. “The full moon is pretty close, so Catalina always likes to stay up late in the days leading up to it to just have fun and get her mind off of it. So _I_ —being the excellent pseudo-father I am—have taken it upon myself to make this week as fun and carefree as possible!” 

“Oh. That—that’s great, Lance.” Varian winced at how weak his encouragement was, though Lance didn't seem to notice. 

“I am, aren’t I? No—you don't have to answer that. I already know it’s true!” 

When the alchemist offered no quip in response, the older man turned his attention back on the kid before him. It was shocking how _small_ he appeared in the night—how, without the bright rays of sunlight or accompanying gadgets and gizmos, goggles and gloves, his boisterous personality seemed to wane and split into fragments. 

Something about the night—the dark—was incredible in its ability to strip bare one’s defenses and fronts. To leave even the strongest naked and vulnerable in the face of the shadows and moon. 

Lance had never seen Varian as vulnerable as he did now.

The boy had curled in on himself, perching on the edge of a chair, as though he were prepared to run in a moment’s notice and at even the gentlest prod. 

He—did he not feel safe there, with Lance? 

Was he afraid? 

The guilt that had been bubbling in the man’s chest grew hotter. 

“Lance?” The word, quiet and uncertain, pulled Lance back to the forefront of his mind. “How come—why did—” a frustrated puff of air blew out of Varian’s mouth. “Why haven’t you come to see me yet? When—when I was in the infirmary, and even now? Where have you been? I haven't seen you since I woke up and—and—

“Are—are you mad at me?” 

All of the air in Lance’s lungs immediately expelled at the quiet question, at the current of agonized grief that laced Varian’s tone. 

He—Varian thought he was _mad_ at him? 

The hot guilt bubbled further, rising tenfold in his stomach and in his heart. How could he have been so _stupid?_ He had let this kid—this already suffering kid—believe that he had been angry with him, had not visited and allowed the fear to fester in Varian’s mind until he believed that _he_ was to blame!

Until he believed that this had all been his own fault and that Lance was some fucking _saint_. 

Before he could answer, the tears came, unbidden, to his eyes and began their silent trek down his cheek. 

“Varian, I—I’m sorry. I’m _so_ _sorry_.” That easily caught the boy’s attention, his neck snapping up to meet the other’s tortured gaze with a harrowed expression of his own. “I’m sorry I didn't come to see you. I just—I couldn't bear to face you after what I had done. Because _this_ —the explosion, your pain—it’s all my fault. 

“I—I didn't listen to you and you got hurt because of me. I was afraid you would be furious, that you wouldn't want to be around me anymore—and—and I couldn't bring myself to face that truth, so I stayed away. I thought maybe that’s what you would have wanted.”

“Lance—how—” but his sentence was severed by the rising wave of emotion now tumbling forth from the man’s heart. 

“You—when it had first happened, you didn't respond to my calls so—so I went to your side and you were bleeding and then—then we couldn't wake you up and I was _scared_. I was scared you were dead and it would’ve been my fault and—and then you did almost die and I wasn't there! 

“But, even then, I was still scared to face you. You were unconscious and I was still too much of a _coward_ to even sit by your side and make sure I was there when you woke up. Then you woke up and I still wasn't there—I stayed away, but you never asked for me, so I thought that’s what you wanted. I thought maybe you hated me, but that was okay because it was my fault and I deserved it—”

The light touch of a hand on his quelled Lance’s growing panic. Varian stood before him, tears pooling in his eyes as well, pale, gloveless hand resting on Lance’s shaking limb. 

“Lance, I—I would never blame you for this. And I don't hate you—I—I could never hate you, even if it had been your fault. But it’s _not_. It was an accident. Heaven knows I’ve had more than my own fair share of those already to last a lifetime.” His voice was soft, timid, but still somehow so strong and sure. 

This fragile boy that stood before the crumbling man was putting aside his own brokenness to heal that of the other. 

“But I know how you feel—the guilt and the unbearable pain you feel in the face of such—such uncertainty. I’ve felt it, too.

“I—I’ve been the villain before. You know that. Everyone knows that. I’ve felt feelings I never want to feel again: anger, hatred, grief. I let myself fall down so deep into the darkness I didn't think I would ever be able to escape. I didn't think I would ever want to escape it.”

Varian’s eyes clenched shut as the memories sprung forward, though his expression eased slightly when Lance offered a reassuring squeeze on his bony shoulder. 

“After I was in jail, I began to see the truth in what I had done. I realized just how trapped in my mindset I had been—how I had refused to believe I ever had any other choice. I realized just how wrong I had been. And suddenly, I—I didn't want to be the villain anymore. 

“But, after everything I had done, I didn't think I deserved forgiveness. I didn't think anyone would ever want to forgive me and I was too scared to ask. I—what would I have done if no one was willing to?

“What if I worked tirelessly to prove myself changed and they still rejected me? What if I asked for forgiveness and they said _no_?”

The boy’s stricken blue eyes raised to meet deep brown, a saddened smile deforming his bloodless lips. “I know what it is to fear asking for forgiveness. To feel so deeply that your mistakes are too great—that you finally went too far and can never be brought back. I know how you’re feeling Lance, so believe me when I say you don't have to feel that way. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

* * *

The remainder of the night saw two figures finding irresistible solace in one another. 

One—having been forgiven and his fears alleviated with the heartfelt declaration of the one he had hurt. The other—having confessed his fears of blame and abandonment to ease, however momentarily, the heavy weight that had settled over his heart.

They shared laughter and tears, smiles and pained grimaces. 

As the stars above glistened in the endless sea of black expanse, the figures were joined by two young girls, each bearing mugs of cocoa and infinite snacks to return joy to the room that had borne witness to an agonized grief. 

The boy found he could forget his worries in the presence of such relentless glee. He could forget the frothing black waters and the amber mausoleum. He could forget the heinous jeers that had left his friends’ lips and the feel of his breaking neck. 

He could forget the swirling black cloak that covered sinister black voids and gleaming white teeth and sharp, bloody claws.

Here, he remembered instead this vivacious laughter—this swell of pure jubilation that lit a match in his heart and gave him reason to believe he would be okay. 

Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—the pain would still be there, for now. 

But perhaps, one day, it would be gone and he would be okay. 

  
  


The moon smiled down upon his figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh. If only Varian could apply this logic to his own state of self-loathing and doubt, am I right???
> 
> *** Real quick I wanna dish on the music.  
> This chapter’s song lyrics are a direct reflection of chapter 1. In the first chapter, the song is from Lance’s pov: he sees Varian injured and begs he makes it and holds onto life. Here, the song is from Varian’s pov: he’s asking those around him (Lance) to hold onto him because he’s finding it hard to do so himself. It’s a battle between finding strength in others and finding strength in yourself. 
> 
> YAY: I finally made good on my promise of Lance and Varian! The story has definitely been leading up to this moment on the side--I mean these are the two characters this story started with! In all the chaos that’s been brewing lately, I think it’s easy to forget where this all began, so I was really happy to bring us back to these two and finally get some peace for Lance.


	10. And with a push from the raging winds—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two papers to write, but I wrote this instead. It's fine. Everything is fine. 
> 
> GUYS. THIS SONG——I basically just replayed this chapter’s song over and over again until it was written. As far as angst goes, this song HAS IT and it is honestly exactly what I think Varian is feeling right now. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: just to be safe, I gotta mention suicide is discussed here. There are no real intentional acts or thoughts of suicide...but the idea itself is mentioned.

_Why do we stay?_  
_Stay surrounded by people that don't want us_  
_In places we're not wanted_

Varian’s hands shook minutely as they moved in expert patterns, melding together pieces of metal in the form of his newest creation. 

A weapon. 

No—not a weapon. A form of defense. He vowed right there that it would not be used as a weapon—that he would not use it until there was no other choice. 

Ruddiger chittered softly from his claimed seat on the lone table in the Demanitus chamber, surrounded hazardously by the numerous beakers and chemicals decorating its surface. His eyes glittered with perturbation as he watched his boy work. 

He had not been there when Varian was first injured—had no idea anything been wrong until he returned from his excursion in the forest to find his boy laid up in bed, sleeping and disturbingly still. 

The raccoon had not known what was wrong. Why was his boy not moving? Was he sleeping? Varian had always been a light sleeper—though, honestly, hardly ever slept at all until he collapsed from exhaustion—so why didn't he wake when he pawed at his face? The princess had said Varian was very deeply asleep and likely wouldn't wake for some time. Something about him being hurt and needing time to get better. 

Hot shame had coursed through his body—and still did—as he realized his boy had been injured and he hadn't been there. 

But he could be there now for him. He would be there now, and he wouldn't leave. Years ago he had made a vow to himself, when Varian had been falling down a path Ruddiger was scared to travel with him, that he would always stick by him because he was all he had left. 

He had stuck by that vow then, and he would stick by it now. 

Now—when his boy seemed to be caught in the darkness, once more...though this darkness seemed different. It wasn't one that blackened Varian’s eyes and hardened his heart against the world. No—this was a darkness that seemed to hang over Varian. It seemed to drain the light—his smiles, his vivacity—right out of him until he was only an empty shadow. Instead of turning him against the world, it seemed to turn Varian against himself.

Ruddiger missed his light—missed how much brighter it had shone since finding his way again. Dark eyes glistened as he made another vow—a vow to help his boy reignite that light once more. 

“I’m okay, Ruddiger.” Varian graced his furry friend with a weak smile, though it quickly dropped as his eyes fell to the chemicals in his hands. Apart, they were harmless—but together?

Together, they could ruin his life. They _had_ ruined his life. 

And now he was making the amber again. 

Blowing out a deep breath, the boy murmured reassurances to himself. “It’s for the good of Corona. I’m not going to use it—it’s just for defense. Worst case scenario. I’m not going to use it.” 

Unsteady fingers lifted to fill a pipet with one solution. All it would take was a few drops into the other beaker. _Easy_. 

So why could Varian not seem to quell the flood of dread and anxiety raging through his veins? Why could he not hear beyond the crescendo of thundering blood pulsating in his ears? 

He moved to let loose the offensive few drops, liquid pooling to the tip of the instrument, mockingly clutching to its surface in what must have been a humorous attempt to delay the inevitable and keep Varian contained in the throes of suffering. 

His eyes flashed suddenly—a wave of orange obscuring his vision that sent the boy stumbling backwards. Pained eyes—reaching hands—his father’s contorted lips— 

“ _Varian! You did this! It should've been you!”_

A choked gasp wrenched free from Varian’s throat, eyes blinking rapidly to clear the scene from his mind. The beaker and pipet clattered to the floor as they slipped from his grasp, fragile glass shattering upon impact. But he did not notice. 

His frame heaved with labored breaths as his hands clutched the table’s edge, desperately trying to hide their tremors. His frame racked with shivers as the air around him turned to ice—white—white—a blizzard? 

It was snowing? 

_“You promised! You promised!”_

Varian flinched at the pure anguish and betrayal in the voice— _his own voice._

_“Dad—dad, the princess refused to help but I—”_

_Frozen. His father was frozen, surrounded by a suffocating stone of an amber glow, face forever etched in pain and despair._

_Dead—dead—Rapunzel’s fault_ — _his fault_ —

“It’s beautiful, isn't it?” _His_ voice purred just behind Varian’s shoulder, sending shivers up his spine for a reason entirely separate from the cold. “Beautiful—how something so small and seemingly harmless could be so disastrous, so _deadly_.”

Raking claws caressed the side of his clenched jaw. “A little like you, my child. My sweet, _monstrous_ child.”

“Stop it. That’s not me anymore. I’ve changed.”

“So it would seem. Although…” Death’s honeyed voice trailed off, cloaked figure moving to trace his fingers through the spilled chemicals—what would have become the amber—on the floor, “perhaps you’ve not changed as much as you think.” 

Varian whirled around, expression flushed in resentment for his tormentor, ready to tell Death exactly what he thought, but—

There was no one behind him. 

“Did you have something to say, child?”

And though it had been frothing inside him seconds ago, the fight quickly drained out of him, shoulders slumping in frustrated resignation. Instead he turned his neck slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the figure that stood still behind him. “Why are you doing this? Why are you here—what do you want with _me_?” 

“You don't know?” His tone was curious, though not entirely surprised. Why would it be? There didn't seem to be anything that could surprise Death. “He hasn't told you just how special you are? Just how long I’ve been waiting for you, my child?”

“How long—what are you talking about? Who hasn't told me?” 

His dark cloak dragged as the skeletal figure sauntered teasingly around, stopping mere inches from the boy’s front. His head tilted minisculely, as though pondering some puzzle—as though gazing upon nothing more than something to be toyed with. “It seems dear old dad has never truly stopped _lying_ to you.”

“Wha—” Varian’s stomach dropped with those words. His father? But—

The boy shook his head, eyes squeezing shut as his fists clenched. He—he—this was a trick again. This had to be a trick again. “Stop. _Stop it._ I know what you’re trying to do and I won't fall for it anymore. 

“I’ve woken up— _you can't hurt me here_.”

A sinister, humorless laugh slipped from those thin lips, dark voids narrowing as his gaze locked on Varian’s small form—just as the lion gazed upon the lamb before he _pounced_. 

“Can't I?” 

Death lunged forward, razor claws extending as they shoved through the soft skin of Varian’s abdomen. The boy’s muscles immediately seized in pain, his body falling backward into the table with a resounding crash as the blood— _the blood_ —it seeped and it dripped in its rush to flee his body and pool on the floor and—

A burning pain on his arm drew Varian back to reality. 

Where his arms had flung out during his collision with the table, beakers had been knocked over and spilled their contents onto his exposed forearm. The skin blistered hotly, red burns igniting a fire in his blood.

Varian hardly felt it. 

Shaking hands clutched at his stomach, desperate to rip the claws from his skin and staunch the flow of blood—

There was nothing there. 

His stomach—it—it was crisp and clean, entirely absent of the deep crimson that had been there only moments ago. There was no evidence of any injury having occurred at all, save for the burns now on his arm. 

Varian’s chest heaved, throat tight as his lungs gasped for breath. His heart thundered its almighty beat. 

As his body gradually settled and his vision came back to him, Varian glanced around, stopping as his eyes fell on the shadow of a tall, lean figure lurking by the stairwell. The form moved slowly, edging towards the light as Varian prepared himself for what would surely be another round of nefarious schemes. 

Any moment now…

“It’s been awhile, _buddy_.”

The voice— _that voice_ —Varian’s breath caught once more, mind halting in a storm of emotions as his body collapsed in on itself. The air was thick and viscous on his tongue, adamant in its refusal to infuse his lungs with precious oxygen. 

It—it _couldn't_ be—

Andrew emerged from the shadows, a dark, vile smile twisting his lips. His gaze was lethal, eyes drilling the blade of death into his gut as the two stared each other down. 

“It seems we have some catching up to do. But you must forgive me—I’m not quite in the mood to _chat_ right now.” The man stalked closer, sizing up his prey as his hands forebodingly drew a sword from the sheath at his hip. 

“Perhaps you’ll accept this apology gift instead!” Andrew struck, hard and fast, sword barely missing its mark at the base of Varian’s neck. 

The boy stumbled back, knees very nearly crumbling right there, as his body attempted to hold itself upright. 

The sword swung fiercely once more, and this time it did succeed in sending Varian toppling to the ground. He landed harshly on the floor, grunting with the force as his back grotesquely protested.

“After all—traitors to Saporia pay with their lives.” 

Silver metal gleamed in the low light of the chamber as it hung momentarily above the alchemist’s frozen body. Varian found he could not move, could not object to the blow about to be delivered and, in a trance, he only had the strength to watch as the blade flashed through the air in a downward arch, the sentence of death trailing in its wake. 

His eyes fell shut, breath evaporating as his body waved its white flag and awaited his end. 

“Please—wait!”

It was not a cry from Varian’s throat that wrenched his eyes open once more. It was a cry—a female cry—that echoed from the opposite side of the chamber, across the amber-filled gorge in the room’s center. 

_The sword—Andrew—_

Only empty air floated listlessly above Varian’s still curled, still trembling form. 

“If I can’t have a happy ending, then neither can you!”

But—that—that was his voice— _his own_ voice. 

Craning his neck to the side, Varian could not subdue his gasp as he digested the scene before him. It was— _him?_ Younger him— _old him_ —skin pale and face marred by the insurmountable hatred that had consumed him once upon a time. 

And beside him—the queen. Arianna cowered in his presence, eyes wide with an uncontained fear as his duplicate circled her tauntingly. 

The other Varian let loose a cackle, cold and cruel, as his hostile gaze flickered up briefly enough to make eye contact with him. The stare didn't fall beside him or strike through him, as though Varian were merely an invisible spectator, but hit him directly—

He could _see_ him. 

Varian staggered to his feet, weary legs carrying him closer to the pair without command. 

As he watched, mouth glued shut with confusion and fright, the boy could only watch his mirror self reveal a beaker containing a fluorescent solution—one Varian knew all too well. After all, he had only just been attempting to recreate it moments ago.

The amber. 

Other-Varian held the beaker jeeringly, lips curled in a malignant sneer and eyes gleaming with a wickedness Varian could only hope was a product of whatever this vision was—a wickedness Varian inwardly pleaded had not once been in his own eyes. The glass tipped slightly, sloshing the liquid around before he moved it closer to the defenseless queen. 

Varian’s body lurched forward more, feet moving faster as his arm stretched out, somehow seeking to stop the coming disaster from unfolding. 

The amber solution coagulated momentarily at the lip of the beaker—a sadistic sneer that spat in Varian’s face—before it spilled to the ground. Immediately, indestructible spikes of deadly stone sprouted—but they did not merely encase Arianna in the way they had his father. 

It could never be that easy.

The sharp tips of stone, instead, thrust themselves forward into skin, into muscle and bone—tearing the queen’s delicate body apart. No hope for rescue. No hope for salvation. She would be dead in minutes. 

“No— _wait!_ ” Varian pushed on, still, legs pumping their desperate plea to somehow save what could no longer be saved. 

Closer he moved, though he never seemed to draw near enough. His body refused to quicken its pace, stuck in a trance of deliberate, slow steps forward. But still he moved.

_Closer—closer—closer—_

A voice—calling—echoed through the muddled haze that had settled over his senses. It called his name. It sounded urgent. 

Varian took another few steps, closer and closer. 

A strong grip latched onto Varian’s left arm, pulling the unsuspecting limb—and, thus, Varian’s entire body—back a few paces, away from the dying queen at his other self’s mercy. 

No— _no!_ He could— _he could still save her!_

The grip was joined by another on his other side, finally pulling Varian back to his presence of mind. The haze evaporated as the static in his ears gave way to sound and his vision blinked back into reality. 

The—the queen and his duplicate—the amber rocks and the dripping blood—

It was gone. 

In its place remained only the bare space of the Demanitus chamber. With a shaky breath and hesitant glance downward, Varian’s heart plummeted.

He stood only a step away from the cavernous hole in the floor’s center, one foot still outstretched to carry him forward, closer to its gaping jaws that gleamed with fangs of amber stone. 

He had been about to walk straight into its depths, none the wiser. 

“Varian?” 

The voice was quiet, uncertain, as it beckoned him to turn away from certain death. The grip on either arm did not relent. Not yet. 

Varian tremulously turned his head back, wide eyes meeting his savior. Eugene stood behind him, face pale with alarm and lips taut with a horrified grimace. His muscles still strained to maintain their tight grip on the boy, as though they feared Varian would break free and continue his trek. 

As though Varian had not been unsuspectingly about to drop himself into a bottomless pit—as though it had been his _intent_. 

Movement behind the man drew Varian’s attention, immediately dawning in recognition as he spotted Lance hovering anxiously in the background, fingers wringing nervously at chest level. 

They thought—they really thought he—

“I—I—I thought I saw something—” The words sounded weak to even Varian’s ears, though he knew it was the truth. He knew Death had painted that picture with every intent to lure Varian back into his cold arms. 

But he couldn't possibly tell them that. It sounded mad! 

Though considering his options were either sounding loony or (fasely) admitting to attempted suicide…well, either one was bound to get him locked up in a mental institution. 

“Right…” The dry incredulity in Eugene’s tone did nothing to hide his intense concern. “And did you happen to see a bridge or do you always attempt walking over large craters in the ground?” 

“I wasn't trying to kill myself.” _Nice_ , Varian winced at his own defense. The words came out with about as much tact as one could have expected—meaning none at all. 

The bluntness of his claim served only to drain what little color remained in the others’ faces, as Eugene’s arms drew back like Varian’s skin had burned him. Their eyes reflected a look of shame—shame at having been caught even considering such a possibility—but also a hint of doubt. 

_Doubt_ —because they didn't quite believe him. 

“I—I wasn't. Please—it—it’s a long story, but I wasn't—”

The arms were back, joined by a second pair, as they wrapped the small boy into a comforting embrace. Varian did not respond, did not return the affection. He only stood still, eyes downcast as he attempted to spew out half-hearted reassurances that he wasn’t—that he would never— 

“Hey, hey—kid. It’s okay. We believe you. We trust you.”

“Yeah!” And if Lance’s voice was still an octave too high and his eyes were still bright with emotion, well Varian supposed he could ignore it. “It definitely didn't look good from where we were standing but—” The darker man’s sentence cut off with a sharp grunt as Eugene not-so-surreptitiously elbowed him in the gut. 

The captain bent forward until he was eye level with Varian. They held their positions momentarily as dark eyes gazed into light blue, searchingly—searching for what? Varian wasn't sure. 

“Kid—Varian, you know you can come to me, or any of us, about _anything_ , right? If there’s something on your mind—however big or small—you can talk to me. I’m here for you.” 

Varian offered a small smile. “I know. I—it really is a long story. And I—I don't know if I’m ready to tell it all, yet.” 

“That’s okay, too.” But Eugene did not release his grip and did not move from his stance. He accepted that Varian was going to keep some things to himself, but he would not leave until the kid gave some sort of explanation for the awful sight they had walked in on. 

Varian—walking forward, seemingly in a trance—steadily approaching the edge of the pit that would send him falling to where he couldn't be caught. Varian—not responding, not reacting to their frantic calls or hurried steps to catch him— _stop him_ — 

The boy heaved a sigh, eyes falling to his feet. “I—I was trying to recreate the amber for Project Obsidian—the weap—the _defense mechanism_ I told you about before—” Varian waited until Eugene responded with a nod, indicating he knew what he was referring to, “and I thought I saw—I _did_ see an image of myself, over there.” Here, Varian vaguely gestured to the other side of the chamber.

“It was me—b-back when I was... _bad_ —and—and the queen was there—and I—he had the amber and it—I dropped it on her—on purpose! But—but it didn't encase her—it—it starting hurting her—killing her and—and—

“I was trying to stop it. I knew it wasn’t real, but—but it looked real. _It felt real_. I couldn't make myself stop, I just kept walking and—” Varian took a deep breath, eyes still locked on the ground so he didn't have to see the look in Eugene and Lance’s eyes. “I didn't realize I was so close to the hole.”

It was the truth, but a half truth. Varian wanted to tell them everything—wanted to tell them how he’s been haunted by Death since the explosion. He wanted the secret off his chest, but something held him back. The words would reach the proverbial cliffside of his tongue, raring to jump, but they would never fall. 

He could feel the claws in his mouth, piercing his tongue every time he attempted to speak of the cloaked figure. 

Just as Death could control his visions, it appeared he, too, could control his voice. 

As the last vestiges of his admission blew free, lingering heavily in the air, the room remained silent, save for the deep breaths wracking Varian’s unsteady frame. 

He could tell Lance and Eugene were struggling with how to react to this—how to respond. Their own lives—prior to settling down in Corona—were certainly not all sunshine and rainbows, but trauma of this magnitude was far from their scope of expertise. 

Varian couldn't help but feel a little ashamed for placing his burden on them, however lighter it might have made him feel. This wasn't their problem. They shouldn't have to be bothered by Varian and his sadistic mind. 

No—it was Varian’s alone to deal with. 

“Anyway…” Varian’s voice was quiet and fragile, barely held together by his own will to forget these past moments. “Be-before, uh, _this_ …” he noncommittally waved at the surrounding space, “I was having trouble p-putting together a final image for Project Obsidian and, well—you—maybe you’d want to help? Only if you’re not busy!” 

It was a weak out Varian was offering them, but the two seemed to recognize how desperate the boy was to move onto safer topics of discussion. 

What Varian had revealed to them—it was a lot. Eugene wouldn't lie about that. It was far from what the man had believed was plaguing the kid. 

It was somehow _worse_. 

When they had entered the room and found Varian about to drop himself into a hole, Eugene had been horrified to imagine the kid feeling so lost in despair that he wanted nothing more than to end it all. It was frightening—it made him feel sick—but it wasn't unfamiliar territory. 

It wasn't a far cry from the feeling that had once plagued a young, newly named Flynn Rider in his darkest times of hopelessness, when he had believed he would never be cherished or wanted in a world so cruel. 

But _this_ —Eugene didn't know how to respond to this. Though that didn't mean he wouldn't try. 

He would be there for Varian and he would help him through this. He vowed to himself, then and there, that the kid wouldn't be alone in this darkness. 

So, with a carefully constructed smile aimed to alleviate Varian’s crestfallen expression, Eugene wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led the way for the three of them—away from cavernous pits and visions of murder. 

“Well, goggles, I'm glad you asked! I already have a few great design choices in mind!” _  
_

* * *

The following evening saw Varian, Rapunzel, Lance, Angry, and Catalina seated around a table in the gardens enjoying dinner. Further away, Max and Ruddiger happily worked their way through a pile of apples, while Pascal enjoyed his own meal beside the princess. 

The conversation was light, flowing through idle comments about the nice weather and Eugene’s training drills with the guards. Catalina had even been brazen enough to recount her adventures during this month’s full moon, earning snickers from Angry and Lance. 

Varian was quiet in this time, choosing to fiddle with his sleeve so it better covered the bandage now wrapped over the burns he had received in the Demanitus chamber. 

_That_ certainly hadn't been fun to explain.

After having recounted the vision that had nearly sent Varian falling to an untimely death, the boy was in no way eager to reveal all the other visions that have been haunting his mind. Instead, he chose to simply claim it had been an explosive mishap—an excuse that was readily accepted, considering just how often such _mishaps_ normally occurred. 

While he was in no way happy to add another tally to Rapunzel’s notebook page of “number of times Varian injures himself via explosions,” it was a better than the truth. 

A round of raucous laughter startled Varian from his thoughts, prompting him to quickly attempt to tune into whatever his friends had last been talking about. 

A sharp slap on the back from Eugene nearly sent him face first into his untouched meal as the captain wheezed his way through some other joke that only heightened the boisterous mood. 

Varian tried to curl his lips into a smile, but it fell short. He continued to merely push his food around the plate, making no effort to eat it as the thought of consuming anything at all sent his stomach into churning somersaults. 

And he certainly was deliberate in his avoidance of Rapunzel’s concerned gaze. 

After a moment, Varian pushed himself back from the table and jumped to his feet, effectively pausing the group’s laughter and conversation. “I—uh, I’m not really hungry, anymore. I’m just gonna head back to the lab to get some more work done.” 

Hot guilt curdled in his chest at their disheartened expressions. 

“Varian, wait!” Rapunzel was by his side in a flash, a hopeful smile decorating her features as she stopped him by the shoulder. “I—I know you haven't exactly been feeling like yourself lately, so I was thinking maybe we could all do something fun tonight...together!” 

“I—I don't know—I—”

“Please? We could all probably use some laughter right now, and—and, well, we haven't spent much time together as a whole group lately. We could all just hang out and maybe play games or paint…” Her eyes were bright and pleading.

Suddenly, Varian knew this was more than just something she was trying to do for him. It was for herself, too—for all of them. They had been so worried about him lately, and he hasn't exactly given them any reason to think everything was okay. 

They were looking to alleviate their own fears as much as his own. 

“I—sure, Rapunzel. That sounds like fun.”

_________________

Any hour later, the six of them were locked away in Rapunzel’s room, arms full with pillows, blankets, snacks, and art supplies. 

Art wasn't exactly the others’ go-to leisure activity, but Varian was grateful for Rapunzel’s suggestion. He loved alchemy and building—of course he did—but art had its own way of soothing the waves of anxiety that would build up in the young boy. 

It was a different form of creativity—one that didn't (often) end in explosions or disaster. With a simple sketchbook and quill, Varian could leave behind the weight of the world and simply let his body do the work in putting his feelings on paper. 

Now, here he stood. Body before a blank canvas, surrounded by friends and encompassed in a familial love he didn't think he would ever feel. 

It was nice. _Exhilarating_. 

Behind him, he could hear the subtle sounds of cheer and laughter from Angry and Catalina. He could hear the teasing remarks passed between Lance and Eugene. He could picture the tender expression on Rapunzel’s face as she, too, reveled in their presence. 

He lifted the paintbrush carefully, tongue poking out from the confines of his lips as he considered what to make. His arm moved gracefully, heeding no command—simply knowing what to do of its own volition. 

A tranquil wave washed over him, drowning out the voices of his friends. It was mesmerizing—captivating. It completely absorbed Varian’s entire existence until he was no longer aware of anything around him. 

He did not feel the cold air that settled on his skin. 

He did, however, hear the ringing bells of _his_ voice as it whispered in his ear. 

Death spoke, but no words could be distinguished. It was merely a feeling, a knowledge of his presence lingering in the back of his mind, but Varian was unable to react. 

His body was trapped in space and time, eyes unseeing as his arm continued to move and paint. Sharp claws danced along his skin and raked through his hair. Rancid breath blew past his ear and pervaded his nose. 

Visions flashed before his eyes—lapping waters that bit into the tender flesh of his ankles—swirling darkness that blanketed his body and weighed him down like chains. Teeth, gleaming and white, snarled from the shadows, lips drawn back in a deadly smile. Claws—raking claws— _his claws_ —scratched at his skin until they were dripping with blood and flesh and—

Varian stumbled backwards, body returning to itself once more, as his supplies fell to the floor with an echoing clatter. 

_Black—black—_

The boy's gaze widened as he stared at the canvas before him—as he stared at a canvas of _black_. A canvas of crystal black waters and suffocating black shadows, spotted with the white of biting teeth and mauling claws, dripping with the red of viscous blood. 

“Varian?” Rapunzel’s voice sounded from far away, as though the sonorous melody was traveling through an sea of water. 

“I told you you would not escape me so easily, my child.” _His_ voice was, at last, clear. It reverberated in Varian’s skull, but did not seem to be noticed by anyone else.

“No—stop it!” Varian’s quivering hands reached up to clutch at his temples, as though the pressure alone could drive out his tormentor. 

“I told you I would _win_.”

“SHUT UP!” All at once, Varian lunged forward, hands relentless as they tore apart the blackened canvas. 

What he really wanted was to tear apart himself—his mind, his heart. Tear it to pieces and cast it out into the summer breeze to be carried far, far away. 

Frame heaving with labored breaths and mind thundering with the blood in his ears, Varian only mumbled a sharp “I need some air” before he escaped to the balcony outside of Rapunzel’s room. 

The air was fresh, garnished with the scent of blossoms and an approaching rain. Standing here, high above the kingdom and confining ground below, he felt unchained—freer. As though there was nothing to fear when you were no longer bound to the earth and its burdens.

Childishly, he wished to fly. 

“So why don't you?” Death stood calmly beside him, face obscured by his hood as he, too, gazed out upon the expanse of endless land. 

“Why do you choose to stay—here, where you’re not wanted? Surrounded by people who don't want you and in a place that _doesn't want you?_ ”

Varian only scowled to himself, face darkening at the words Death spoke—the words that seemed to resonate with something in his heart. Something he had been attempting to ignore. 

“Haven't I told you to get lost, yet? You keep telling me these things, but it’s a waste of time. You’re _wrong_.”

“Oh—my child,” his voice was mellifluous while his skeletal fingers traced patterns on the back of Varian’s neck. It would almost be comforting if Varian didn't know those claws could, at any moment, plunge into his skin and rip out his bones. “I don't think I am.”

“I think you _are_.” His tone was acidic, layered with an anger he hadn't comfortably expressed in a long time. 

The fleeting looking of surprise that passed over Death’s face, so fast he would have missed it if he blinked, brought Varian inexplicable satisfaction. It soon, however, darkened into malicious vexation. 

“So sure—so convinced by their charade, are you? Well look around you, child. Look around you and see for yourself just how _wanted_ you are. It’s nothing but a sham.”

A strong gust of wind billowed through Varian’s hair, taking with it the weight of Death’s presence and leaving only a trailing echo of his last words. 

_Look around—it’s nothing but a sham._

So Varian did—he turned on the spot, blue eyes peering back into the room from which he had escaped. 

There were no sounds of laughter anymore, all feelings of joviality having been quenched by Varian’s outburst. Lance and the girls were huddled on Rapunzel’s bed, stressfully munching their way through the assortment of various treats that had been brought up, while Eugene and Rapunzel were tearing down the easels and cleaning the mess from Varian’s dropped supplies, respectively. 

_Way to go Varian—once again burdening other people with your problems._

He stood just before the threshold of the door, not quite willing to step back inside and face their worry and confusion. Instead, his gaze roamed the walls of the princess’s room—lingering on the beautiful display of artwork that left not a single space bare of color. 

The back of his mind pricked with a sense of familiarity, as though he had seen these paintings before, despite this being the first time he’s been in her room. 

A smile, soft and miniscule, began to twitch at the corners of his mouth, when he saw _it_. 

_There_. At the top of the wall was a painting— _the_ painting. 

The same one Death had shown him so, so long ago. 

It was him—with his hulking automatoms and a mutated, feral Ruddiger. It was him—with his clenched fists and threatening stance, with his expression tarnished by hatred and his green, glowing eyes. 

Eyes that had once haunted his nightmares. 

Eyes that apparently haunted Rapunzel’s, as well. 

The air caught in his throat as his heart turned to glass and shattered. Numb feet carried him forward, back into the room, as his gaze remained transfixed on his image. Echoes of voices rang in his ears. 

_They look at you and they see a monster._

_They look at you and they want you gone._

It’s real—it’s real— _it’s real—_

Varian vaguely heard the princess call his name, but he couldn't respond. His tongue was melded to his jaw, throat swollen shut. His breaths grew shallow and quick, failing to pull in any air at all. 

He felt as though he was going to pass out. Or perhaps die. 

He wasn't sure which option was better. 

_It’s real—it’s real—_

_He’s right._

A delicate hand on his shoulder grounded Varian to reality, but it didn't matter because this _was_ reality. This painting—his image with its ferocious snarl and glowing eyes, lusting for blood and revenge—it was _real_. It was _right there_. 

“Varian, are you—oh!” Rapunzel cut herself off with a sharp intake of breath as she followed his gaze to the painting on the wall. “Oh—Varian, I’m so sorry. I—I never—you shouldn't have had to see that—”

“Is that how you see me?” 

Rapunzel and Eugene were equally appalled at the question—at the unadulterated agony and total submission to despair that colored Varian’s voice. 

“Of course not! That was from so long ago—I should have taken it down _ages_ ago. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—don’t be sorry, Rapunzel. After all, that’s who I am. There’s no reason to deny it.”

As Lance and the girls moved the stand behind the couple, offering their own silent support, Eugene stepped forward to squeeze Varian’s shoulder. “No—kid, that’s _not_ you. Not anymore. You’ve changed, _so much_ —”

 _Perhaps you’ve not changed as much as you think._ Those had been Death's words. He had thought them wrong.

Now he wasn't so sure. 

“I’ve changed?” Varian shrugged the man’s hand off of him, moving back a step, before gesturing harshly as the yellowing bruise on Rapunzel’s cheek—the one _he_ had given her days before. “Have I _really_?”

Rapunzel moved forward adamantly, putting herself back in his space with some desperate hope to make the alchemist see _reason_. “Varian—that _wasn't_ your fault! Nobody is blaming you—you were startled from a dream. I—I shouldn't have—”

A manic laugh bubbled in Varian’s throat, eyes wild with a growing hysteria he couldn't seem to contain. “Oh! So it’s your fault? What—are you cleaning up my mess again, _princess_?” 

The venom in his tone as he spat her title—sounding not so different from a time when he had been driven by contempt and fury—made Rapunzel flinch. Varian’s heart clenched at that, begging his tongue to hold back, but he could not stop. 

“Like—like you did on the airship? When I should have—you—you should have let me—”

“I should’ve let you die?”

“Maybe!” 

_  
  
_

The silence that washed over the room following Varian’s shout was deafening. The air was thick and tense, wrapping its suffocating fingers around each exposed throat so no sound could be made. The word rang in the stillness. 

The pain in Rapunzel’s expression was not something she had ever quite felt before. She has known pain, yes—physical, emotional...the deep, heart-wrenching pain that accompanies the betrayal of a friend.

She had felt it all before. More than once. 

This—this pain was new. Standing here, gazing upon the figure of a small, _broken_ boy—it ripped a hole through her chest and heart that hurt so differently—so much worse—than the other pains. 

She had never really noticed how small he truly was until that moment. In all the times she had seen him—even when he was without the gloves and the goggles and the apron that seemed to swallow his frame—he had always appeared larger than he was. 

Perhaps it had been his personality—his infectious spirit and quirky confidence as he rambled about science. Perhaps it had been the unwavering smile he always carried with him since finding his way back to their side. 

There had been a strength in him that she so admired—a heart of gold and an empowering nature to always pick himself back up when he fell. 

Though, she now realized, perhaps that strength had only ever masked this pain she was seeing now. This _brokenness_. 

His strength was built on walls he had carved around his heart—and now those walls had finally crumbled, leaving him bare and open. _Vulnerable_. 

Standing there before her, devoid of his gloves and goggles and trembling with a grief and anguish more raw than she had ever seen in him before, he was small. He was so incredibly _small_. 

His strength had failed. He had fallen once more. 

But, for once, he lacked the strength to pick himself back up on his own. 

He needed help. He needed _her_ —needed all of them. 

And so, right there, as she gazed upon the broken boy and truly listened to his heart’s cry for help, she made a vow. She would be there for him—everyday, every step of the way until he wasn't so broken anymore. She would offer him her hand and pull him back to his own two feet. She would lend him her strength until he could find his own, once more. 

He would not do this alone. 

And she would have made good on that promise right then and there, had the darkening evening sky not been lit in the distance by a radiating flare of blue.

* * *

She stood at the kingdom’s border, immersed in the shadows, though her pale features were illuminated by the glow of her blue hair. 

Her heart shuddered as she gazed upon the castle, mind replaying her last encounters with the princess. 

At her feet lay an abandoned cloak—one that would grant her safe entry to the capital—an easy way in. A coward’s way in. 

Though waiting now, beneath the blackening sky scarcely lit by a waning moon, for the cover of darkness—she wasn't really any better. 

Quickly, before she could change her mind and retreat back to her tower—where she had been lied to by a demon—had been played as a puppet—the girl sent up a single black rock high enough that its blue luminescence would be spotted from the princess’s tower.

_No turning back now._

Cassandra stepped forward, out of the shadows, and towards the kingdom of Corona. 

* * *

_Tell me why you stay_  
_Stay surrounded by people that don't want you_  
_In places you're not wanted_   
  


_(seafret - why do we stay)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesss. Longest chapter yet. I definitely didn't mean for the first scene with Death to be as long as it was, but I always seem to get carried away when I write him and Varian. There is SO MUCH ANGST to work with and my mind just seems to take it and run. As much as it hurts our boy, it’s honestly so much fun to write.
> 
> AGAIN: I love this chapter’s song (and artist). Like I said above, it is exactly what is going on in Varian’s head (with Death’s influence). I totally encourage you to give it a listen! It’s far from an uplifting song, but angsty songs have all the feels. 
> 
> (ps.) is it a thing that Angry prefers to be called Angry rather than Keira? I’m sticking with Keira for now since that’s what I’ve been using, but if it’s a thing, I’ll go through and change it lol.
> 
> Stay tuned!


	11. —into the darkness I fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sooo late guys and I’m very sorry (smiles sheepishly). The semester FINALLY finished, so now I have a lot more time to focus on this. Of course I ran into a bit of a block and just didn't really feel like writing for a bit. sigh. BUT I’M BACK!
> 
> We’ve got some recurring dialogue from “Once a Handmaiden…” but also canon divergence cause we love original content here! 
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: character(s) injury, explicit language, suicidal thoughts

_I walk alone beside myself_  
_Nowhere to go._  
_Ah this bleeding heart_  
_that's in my hands_  
_I fell apart._

_(black math - flesh and bone)_

The wave of blue illuminated the dark night in a display of iridescent color, reflecting off the clouds of a brewing storm. 

It was a color Rapunzel knew too well. And she knew, too, who would be beneath its shine. 

Turning back to her company, she found their widened gazes fixed on the distal point where the sky had burned blue—they, too, had seen the message. And they, too, knew what it meant. 

Cassandra was coming. And they would have to meet her head-on. 

_“I should’ve let you die?”_

_“Maybe!”_

Varian’s features were pinched, eyes lowered to his wringing hands and frame tense under the resumed touch of Eugene’s hand. Though she could not hear his breath, his chest rose laboriously, as though it pained him to continue breathing at all. 

Rapunzel could read the shame that flooded his expression—shame at having let such a burdening secret slip—shame at having revealed to them one of his deepest feelings. 

That expression hurt even more than the words had, themselves. 

With a steely breath and plea for mercy, the princess allowed her eyes to harden into confidence as she looked to the others.

“Lance, I want you and the girls to go find my parents. Warn them that Cassandra is coming and we may need to prepare to evacuate the people to safety. I don't know what she’s here for, but I refuse to let my guard down anymore. We need to be ready for anything at this point.” 

With an acknowledging nod, the man pulled Angry and Catalina from the room (though their anxious glance back towards the silent alchemist did not escape her notice). 

Rapunzel patiently waited for their exit before turning her attention to Eugene and Varian. In the blanket of silence that nestled over the room, as Varian kept his unwavering stare firmly pointed to the floor, Rapunzel took the time to truly _look_ at him—at his frame that was skin and bones, at his eyes that were dim and shadowed. 

It was startling. It was agonizing because she had not seen it before—had not seen him falling so rapidly into darkness _right before her eyes._

“Eugene—you and Varian should alert the guards and ready your defenses. Make sure they know _not_ to attack and tell them to stay out of her sight for the time being. I want to see what she has to say. I—if there’s any chance of making amends and getting through to her, then that is our primary goal.”

With another, heavier glance towards the boy who had raised his chin enough to meet her eyes, she breathed, “After all, I’m not one to give up on my friends.” 

His answering smile—however fragile and wane—was enough to raise her heart from where it had sunk in her gut. But before Eugene could pull Varian away from the room of nightmares and secrets revealed, Rapunzel’s hand shot out to latch onto his bony wrist.

“Varian, I—I _need_ you to know I’m not pushing you aside right now. Okay? What you just said— _I hear you._ We will talk about this. As soon as we figure out what Cass wants, the three of us will sit down and figure this out. _Together_. 

“You’re not alone, Varian. Don't ever forget that.” 

She offered his wrist a warm, gentle squeeze as though to enunciate the love in her heart she held for him—as though she could pass it from its beating beat into his fiery blood by a simple touch. 

Eugene did not loosen his grip on the boy’s shoulder as he shared a look with Rapunzel. And through that momentary glance passed a surge of understanding. 

_Do not let him out of your sight. Keep him safe._

_________________

Their feet were silent on the cobblestones as Eugene, Varian, and the guards fell into various positions amongst the town’s buildings. They had wanted to make their stand outside of the capital, but, after looking through their spyglass, had seen that Cassandra was already across the bridge. And while they were hesitant to make a stand so close to the kingdom’s people, there was little cover offered in the castle’s courtyard.

Farther ahead, Rapunzel stood as a lone silhouette in the night air, her golden hair reflecting mystically in the dim moonlight. 

And then they saw her. 

Cassandra’s glowing blue hair was smothered beneath the hood of a dark cloak, as though she believed it would keep anyone from knowing she was there. Perhaps it would have—that is, had she not announced her position with a large, luminescent rock that was visible to anyone who so happened to glance at the right place at the right time. 

Though, at the same time, perhaps she did not want to hide her arrival. 

As the Captain peered around the corner of a building, he gave a low reminder to the guards within earshot. “Hold your position. Do not make any movements until Rapunzel gives the signal or you hear _my_ command.” 

At the various affirmative nods, Eugene turned his attention to the boy immediately to his left. Varian knelt low to the ground, hands clasped to Project Obsidian as he carefully aimed it in Cass’s direction. 

Beneath the watchful gaze of the celestial stars, sun and moon reunited, their stares latched on the other’s face. Their expressions were startlingly similar: disbelief at the other’s appearance— _fear_ at the other’s appearance and...a sense of longing—for something that felt so impossible. 

“Cassandra...what are you doing here? What do you want?”

The girl’s jaw opened and closed for a moment, the words of her deepest desire on the tip of her tongue, but not quite willing to become tangible just yet. Instead, she opted to avoid the subject, even if only for a minute more.

“I’m surprised you showed up. You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

“It—these last couple weeks have been...difficult,” the princess chuckled unconvincingly. She was mindful of Varian’s presence behind them—knew he could likely hear their every word. “You don't look much better if I’m honest.” 

“I—about the mirror from—from Gothel’s cabin—Zhan Tiri fooled us both.” Cassandra’s voice hardened with anger—anger at the demon, anger at herself. Her fists clenched tightly, shaking with rage at her side as she realized just how foolish she had been. She thought she was chasing her destiny—thought she was finally regaining some control over who she was. 

But she never had any control at all. 

Small stalagmites of back rocks sprouted at their feet as Cassandra’s expression screwed up in a mixture of pain and fury, head bowed to her chest. “She played me, Rapunzel. I was a fool—I’ve been nothing but a puppet, and—I—I’m sor—”

Before she could finally utter the words that had been boiling in her gut since learning the truth, a guard—who had been waiting for the moment she turned her back to him—sprung forward with a shout, sword drawing hastily in his rush to the moonstone’s wielder. 

“Step away from the princess, traitor!”

Rapunzel’s eyes widened in shock before her brows furrowed at his dismissal of orders. Her hand reached out to command his halt, “No! Stand down!”

Any semblance of sorrow or hope for peace fled Cassandra’s countenance at that moment. Her lips pulled up in a snarl as she thrust a fist forward. Black rocks sprung from the earth to slam into the guard’s figure, throwing him back several paces with a harsh grunt. 

It was as though a cry for war had been declared. 

Guards jumped to their feet, some rushing to neutralize the sudden threat. They ran no more than a few feet towards their target before black rocks emerged to encase them. 

“Wait! Cass, don't do this! It’s not too late for us to make things right.” Rapunzel’s eyes were bright with her plea, hands reaching out to grasp her former friend’s arm before she could act further. 

Eugene and Varian ran forward from their previous positions, quickly approaching the scene that had so unexpectedly turned for the worst. The captain’s face was shadowed, jaw locked with anger at his orders having been ignored. 

He would be having _words_ with that guard when this was all over. 

Varian crouched behind a set of blooming rocks as he pointed his machine towards Cassandra once more. Eugene remained standing, albeit bent low for cover just to the boy’s right. 

“Hold your fire,” the man whispered, eyes glancing down in an attempt to see the alchemist’s face, though he could not see well enough to read his expression. 

Varian’s finger remained far from the trigger—the boy choosing instead to tightly curl both hands around the base. 

He would not use it. He had no intent to use it unless Eugene gave the order. 

Even then, Varian didn’t know if he would pull the trigger. 

He didn't know if he _could_. 

Up ahead, Cassandra was edging away from her unexpected company, eyes torn between guilt and betrayal. “Rapunzel...I _want_ to believe you, but—”

Unbeknownst to the group, a small girl crept behind the alchemist as her lips drew back in a sinister smile. A small, dainty finger reached out to push the trigger of his device and all hell broke loose. 

Amber obscured everyone’s vision as the sudden blast rocked the earth. Varian, not having expected its discharge, was thrown to his back with the recoil, shoulder twinging painfully. He only just managed to raise his head in time to see the stone prison wrapping its fingers around Cassandra’s surprised form. 

Her hand was outstretched— _reaching_ —and her face was marred with fear.

Fear—fear of her fate, fear of his invention. _Fear of him._

_Just as his father had looked._

“No! I said we didn't need to attack her!” Rapunzel’s shout surprised him. Her voice was sharp—she was angry. _At him_.

“I—I’m sorry, I don't know what happened! I-it must have malfunctioned!” He was foolish! How could he have believed he could ever do something right! He—he—

He did not see the shadow of a little girl as she disappeared from behind him. He did not see the dawning realization on Rapunzel’s face when she _did_ notice Zhan Tiri’s retreating silhouette. 

All he saw was a flash of darkness as it flooded his vision, and from it glowed an echo of green. Eyes—green eyes, haunting eyes emerged from the black shadows. The same eyes he had seen in his sleep. The same eyes he had seen on the princess’s wall. 

_They look at you and they see a monster._

_Perhaps you’ve not changed as much as you think._

He—Death was right, wasn't he. He was the monster. All this time, he’s been trying to convince himself he was changed, he wasn't the villain. But he was. He always has been! He is the villain—he is the monster.

The monster that needed to be put down. 

The shattering of crystal echoed in the night as black and amber collided. The mausoleum surrounding Cassandra disintegrated into fragments as the black rocks answered her call. As she emerged from the shower of glass, her expression darkened into hatred. 

Peace was gone. 

Because of _him_. 

“Project Obsidian, huh? Zhan Tiri was right.”

“Cassandra—” 

“You want me to be the bad guy? Fine. Now I’m the bad guy.” 

Ignoring Rapunzel’s cry, Cassandra threw a vial to the stone ground, the glass breaking upon impact. A fog of blue smoke clouded the air, thickening in the princess’s throat as her vision went dark. 

“No! Rapunzel!” Eugene’s shout of horror spurred the remaining guards into action. As the captain rushed forward with Max towards the fallen princess, the guards began their attack, wielding swords and tossing nets over the enemy. 

Eugene lifted Rapunzel from the ground, taking only a fraction of a second to be sure she was still breathing before he placed her gently onto the horse’s back. “Max, Pascal—get the princess out of here! Now!” 

The animals had only just made their retreat when a blunted black rock shot forth from the ground and barreled into the man’s unsuspecting body. He collapsed with a shout of pain as Cassandra wielded the rocks again to rid herself of the net. In moments, indestructible cages wrapped themselves around the guards, rendering them helpless in the coming fight. 

“Cassandra! Please, this is your home!” Varian’s voice was feeble, wavering ever so slightly as he battled the visions pervading his mind.

Cassandra’s gaze fell upon the boy, eyes widening minutely as she took a second to observe his appearance. He hadn't looked great when she had kidnapped him, but, now, he looked worse. 

His skin was ashen, except for the dark bruises beneath his eyes that spoke volumes of his apparent exhaustion. He seemed smaller, thinner from when she last saw him, which was saying something. 

She recalled Rapunzel’s desolate expression. And, with a quick glance, she could see one of equal fatigue on Eugene’s face. 

_What had happened here?_

Her curiosity (and, dare she admit it, _concern_ ), however, was forgotten as Cassandra’s eyes next turned to the weapon in Varian’s hand. The same one that had released a wall of amber in her direction. 

“Not anymore.” She called forth the rocks once again, sending them careening in the boy’s direction and forcing him to jump back. But he was not able to move enough to save Project Obsidian from destruction as the sharp tips of stone tore his creation to pieces. 

Varian spared the device only a short glance. He was honestly grateful for its demise. After all, it had only brought them more trouble in the end. 

Just like everything else he made or did. 

Just like him. 

Eugene, finally having staggered to his feet, stepped in front of Varian, expression tainted with an overwhelming fury very few had ever seen grace his features before. “Cassandra, stand down! I am putting a stop to this right now.”

The raw anger in his voice provoked an unrestrained flinch in the boy behind him, but it did not daunt their foe. Instead, Cassandra only bellowed a deep laugh as her smile turned deadly, “This ought to be good!” 

From beside her, the shadow blade rose to meet her fingertips and her grip closed around its base, drawing the unbreakable sword into a ready position. 

Ready to fight. Ready to kill. 

“Cass—please, you are like a sister to—”

“Save it!” And with the blow of those bladed words, too, swung the blade of her sword.

Eugene only just managed to draw his own weapon in time to stop its descent before the metal could unceremoniously expose his innards. It was no matter, however, as his sword was nothing in the face of magic.

The black rocks were neverending in their uprooting from the earth, merciless as they struck his unprotected figure and sent the captain stumbling again and again. One particularly rough hit sent Eugene to the ground with a resounding crack. His breath wheezed as he fought for air, face tightly pinched in agony as he clutched at his likely bruised, if not cracked, ribs. 

Unable to stand and watch the man be beaten for _his_ mistake, Varian rushed forward to place himself between Eugene and Cassandra. “Stop, stop! Cassandra—I’m the one who built Project Obsidian. Okay? I was holding it! This is _my fault_ , so take it out on me!”

The girl only sent him a withering glare as she shoved him hard on the shoulder. “Sorry, kid. But my fight’s not with you.”

Varian, however, wasn't willing to stand down so easily. Grabbing her wrist as she brushed past him, he ground out harshly through gritted teeth, “Maybe it should be.” 

Whatever Varian had been hoping to accomplish, it was certainly not what happened next. 

His words had halted Cassandra’s attack, which gave Eugene just enough time to once again get his feet under him, albeit very painfully, if his deep wince was any tell. As his eyes fell upon Cassandra turned towards Varian, the man felt his heart drop. 

He’d be damned if he let anything else happen to the kid. He had been through more than enough pain to last a lifetime. 

With lurching steps, Eugene rammed his body into the girl, effectively pushing her away from Varian. 

It was, perhaps, better imagined in his head, however, as, once she regained her balance, Cass turned her venomous scowl onto him. “Wrong move, Fitzherbert.” Her arm shoved through the empty air as lethal stones followed its direction. 

They surrounded Eugene, leaving him very little room to dodge the piercing tips. One was successful, as it grazed his left shoulder and sent him tumbling to the ground with a gasp. He rolled onto his back, good arm reaching up to cover his face as his attacker barrelled down on him with her sword raised—destined to seal his fate. 

Varian was hardly aware of the panicked shout that escaped his lips as he ran towards the pair. His eyes remained fixed on the glinting black, a reflective shimmer mocking him in the moonlight, as it fell closer to Eugene—his friend, his _brother_. 

He would not let Eugene suffer for him— _die_ for him—die _because_ of him. Not now. Not after everything they’ve all been through. Too many people have had to pay for his mistakes. 

This time, Varian would pay for it himself. He would clean up his own mess if it was the last thing he did. 

It was, after all, what he deserved. 

_The monster that needed to be put down._ He scoffed internally at the remark. _Well, here goes nothing._

His timing was precise. Just before the razored tip of the sword could slice into Eugene, Varian jumped in front, taking the hit to his side and falling to the ground. 

There were shouts of surprise at the sudden blur of motion, but Varian could hear none of it beyond the sudden burning agony where the blade had split his skin, shaking hands immediately moving to clutch at the spot where a small stream of blood began to gurgle out from his flesh. 

His jaw clenched shut in an attempt to subdue the sudden whimpers trying to spurt from his throat. _Why did no one ever warn him how much getting stabbed actually hurt?_

He didn't do well with pain. Or blood. Speaking of which…

The cascade of hot liquid at his side was slippery beneath his gloves. There wasn't much, but his mind was adamant to supply him with a helpful image of crimson. And he swore that if he really tried, he could even smell its sickly, metallic scent in the air. 

_No—no, stop that, Varian! Not helping—not_ —

“Varian!” Eugene’s hands were suddenly on him, pulling on his shoulder to turn the boy onto his back so he could better see the wound. It wasn't grievously long, but it was deeper than the captain was comfortable with (mind you, he was uncomfortable with any wound at all on the boy’s skin). Varian’s maroon vest made it difficult to discern the traces of blood where the sword had hit him, but Eugene saw them all the same. 

It made him sick. It made him angry—angry at Cassandra, angry at himself. 

The blow had been meant for him. 

Chocolate eyes met crystal blue for a split moment. Excruciating sadness ripped its way through Eugene’s chest and stuttering heart as Varian’s expression flooded with relief. 

He—he was _happy_ Eugene was safe. He had put himself in harm’s path to protect the man that was supposed to protect _him_. 

“Hey—hey kid, you’re alright. You’re gonna be fine. It’s just a scratch.”

“Eugene—I—you-you're safe. That—that’s good.” His breath was thin, as though each word was physically squeezing his lungs with a crushing grip. 

“I’m okay. I’m okay, you’re gonna be okay. We...why—why did you do that? Why would you do that?” He didn't mean for his voice to sound so harsh, but he had to understand. “It’s not your job—you—I’m supposed to protect you! I—why did you do that?” 

“I—I had to—to c-clean up my m-mess. ‘s my fault.” 

Against his better judgment, Varian gingerly lifted his gloved hand into his field of vision. The scent of blood was so strong at that point. _Was there really that much of it?_

Catching sight of the movement, Eugene attempted to stop him with an urgent, “No—don’t look, kid,” but it was too late. 

The sight of dripping crimson raining gently from his hand sent his stomach into rapid somersaults. Black spots immediately danced across his eyes.

_Stupid—stupid—why would you look—_

Varian fell unconscious in seconds. 

Eugene lowered his head, awaiting Cassandra’s final blow. When none came, he craned his neck to look back at the girl, but her arms were not poised threateningly above her head as he imagined. 

Instead, they hung limply at her sides. Her mouth was opened in a horrified gape, eyes widened with shock. 

She had not been expecting what just transpired. This—this was not what she wanted to happen. 

At his movement, the girl’s fluorescent blue eyes darted to his and she stumbled back under his enraged glare as though he had struck a tangible blow. 

“I—I—this isn’t—I didn't want this—I—” 

“Are you happy now?” His tone was ice cold and as sharp as the blade of her sword as it sliced into her chest and sent her bleeding. “After everything he’s been through—you—when will it be enough? Are you happy now?!” 

Cassandra’s lungs withered, unwilling to inflate once more and bring in precious oxygen. Her feet carried her farther back, away from the wretched scene that lay before her. She did not hear Eugene’s angry shouts, did not hear Zhan Tiri commanding in her ear for her to finish it—to kill the boy, once and for all—

(Kill Varian? Why would Zhan Tiri want _him_ , of all people, dead?) 

She heard none of it, saw none of it except for the boy’s haggard face and dripping blood. 

_She did this—she did this—this wasn't what she wanted—_

Without a word, Cassandra, at last, turned tail and ran back into the night. The hood on her cloak obscured her blue hair, so it was not long before she vanished from sight, leaving nothing behind but broken fragments of rock and a bloody battlefield. 

Eugene did nothing to stop her. As much as he longed to give chase and run his own sword through her in that moment, he would not leave Varian. The wound wasn't life-threatening, but the sight of his blood, the replaying image of the kid throwing himself in front of what could have been a fatal blow— _for him_ —wrapped a noose around his heart and _pulled_. 

Instead, he turned his gaze to the broken scene around him. Minutes later, the cages of black stone crumbled beneath an unheard command, releasing the guards they had contained. The Moonstone’s wielder must have been far beyond their reach by that point. 

Not that any of them would have made the move to follow her, anyway. 

The captain’s sullen brown eyes turned, at last, to meet the returning gaze of Owain—the guard who had initiated it all—the guard who had disregarded orders simply for— _for what?_ He didn't ask. It was too late to justify the mess he had caused. 

“Owain.” The guard in question stiffened as the sound of his name rolled so bitterly off his captain’s tongue. “You are to ride to Old Corona, right now. Take Max and be there within the hour. You are to tell Quirin that he is needed at the castle. Tell him that his son has been injured.”

With only a brief second of hesitation, Owain rose ashamedly to his feet, already flanked by Max, who had been listening intently for his next command. 

“And Owain—” Eugene waited for the man to turn his stricken gaze back to him before continuing. “I want you to also be sure Quirin knows exactly how his son was injured. You tell him he was injured because _you_ had blatantly decided to disregard your orders. You tell him—”

With a choked huff, Eugene turned his face away, unable to look upon the guard a moment longer. He was being harsh, he knew that. But he could not unsee the sight of Varian jumping in front of a deadly blade meant for him. He could not unfeel the feeling of slick, crimson liquid coating his hands and Varian’s skin. 

_For what?_ He didn't ask. He didn't care. 

All he could do was sit in the silence of the night, under the waning moon, with throbbing ribs and a bleeding boy held closely in his arms. Around him fell the first thick drops of the summer rain. 

* * *

Her eyelids fluttered softly against porcelain cheeks. The world felt foggy—just beyond her grasp—but she could hear the indiscernible sounds of voices from the other side of the veil that cloaked her senses. 

Slowly, with gathering strength, Rapunzel forced her green eyes open, blinking several times to bring the world into focus. 

“Blondie?” Eugene’s voice was brittle, sounding with every ounce of fear and concern that had plagued him since the battle.

“Wha—what’s going on?” 

“Oh, thank goodness you’re okay!” Strong arms enveloped her stiff body, but the embrace was warm and comforting. No matter what lay beyond those arms, she knew she would be okay within them. 

“Eugene?” The princess, though reluctantly, pulled herself back from his chest to peer into his face. The sight of purpling bruises caught her off guard—and then she noticed an edge of white bandages peeking out from the shoulder of his uniform. “What happened—a-are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sunshine. Just a few bruises and scratches. Some bruised ribs—nothing of concern. It’s you I’m worried about. When—when you were knocked out, I—we didn't know what was in that potion—” Eugene took a deep, steadying breath, his head tilting down towards his chest as he gathered control over his emotions. “We were all really worried about you.” 

Rapunzel offered Eugene a heartfelt smile, eyes brightening with the overwhelming adoration she felt for the man before her. In the silence that followed his admission, the princess glanced around her bedroom to meet the eyes of her other visitors. 

Lance, Angry, and Catalina stood at the foot of her bed, each wrapped up in one another’s arms for solace from the night’s events. At her side, just to the right of where Eugene was perched on the edge of the bed, stood her parents. 

Upon meeting their gazes, Arianna and Frederic each took their turn in smothering Rapunzel with a tight hug and whispered words of relief and love. 

There was one face, however, that the princess realized was absent from the crowd. One she, perhaps more than she expected, longed to see. “Where’s Varian? And—” a quiet gasp escaped her lips “—what happened with Cassandra? Is she okay? Did she—”

“Woah, woah Rapunzel, take a breath. Cassandra was just fine—we could hardly get close enough to lay a scratch on her, anyhow. She—after she knocked you out, there was a fight, but—well, she—she ran off. She’s gone.”

“For now…” Lance muttered quietly from his place in the room, though the heavy words were heard all the same. And their implication rang true—Cassandra was gone, but they didn't doubt she would be back. 

“She ran off? Did—did something hap—” Dawning realization struck cold in the princess’s heart. There was only one reason that could explain Cass’s sudden retreat and Varian’s absence. “Eugene, _please_ —where is Varian?” 

At his hesitation, Rapunzel immediately moved to swing her legs over the side of the bed and stand up. She started for the door, but only succeeded in taking a few steps before the captain grabbed her wrist. 

“Rapunzel, he’s—he’s going to be fine. During the attack, he got hit with her sword, but it wasn’t too serious. You—you know how the kid is with blood,” Eugene chuckled nervously. “He passed out when he saw it and is in his room recovering now. He’s—”

“ _No_. Eugene, _I know you_. I can hear it in your voice—there’s more to it. Please. Tell me everything that happened.” 

The man’s figure sagged with the sudden breath that expelled from his lungs. “Alright sunshine—but, please, just sit down first. You don't look completely recovered from the potion’s effects yet.”

And it was true—Rapunzel _did_ still feel quite woozy, but she wasn't sure she could blame that entirely on the potion, what with her heart hammering in her chest at the confirmation that Varian was hurt. 

Again. 

With the couple safely seated once more on the soft, downy sheets, Eugene tenderly cradled her hands in his. “After you passed out, I had Max take you back to the castle. I—I didn't know what Cass was planning, but I couldn't let you stay in harm’s way, especially being unable to protect yourself. She started attacking me with the rocks—and _man_ , do those things hurt!—but then Varian stepped in and I guess they were yelling at each other. All I know is I wasn't going to let her do anything to him, so I tried to intervene, but then she shot me down with the rocks again and—and she made to—I don't know, _finish me off_ or something—she—she—” 

Eugene took another deep breath, not realizing his eyes had been clamped shut. “I honestly think she might have been ready to kill me, right then. She swung her sword down towards me and— _her face..._ She just looked _so angry_.

“But—but then the kid jumped in front of me and _he_ took the hit. To—to his side. And there was blood and—and he passed out and, for a moment, I was back in the infirmary room. I was there—watching the red spill from a hole in his head and—” the air caught in his throat as an unfathomable emotion bubbled deep in his throat. 

Rapunzel’s eyes glistened with tears, her free hand clasped over her gaping mouth as her chest heaved slightly with smothered sobs. 

“I—he tried to sacrifice his life— _for me_. He smiled, Rapunzel. Dammit, he _smiled_ when he saw I was okay, even though he could have been dying for all we knew.”

The man stared deeply into the face he so adamantly loved. Her green eyes were darkened with despair, but, if he looked close enough, he could still find that glimmer of hope he had yet to ever see escape her. 

It gave him something to hold onto. 

“Is—is he alone? Now?” Her voice trembled with the strong reins that were thrown over her emotions, hands grappling to reel them in. 

“No. Quirin’s with him now. I sent Owain to fetch him—the least he could do after he disobeyed our commands.” And if his tone was harsh and bitter, well...he couldn't really bring himself to regret it. 

“Rapunzel—you had told him earlier that we were going to talk? Well, we _need_ to have that talk. As soon as he wakes up. This—whatever these feelings and this self-sacrificial bullshit is—it can’t go on. We can't keep letting him feel like this.” 

Though the words were spoken to the princess, everyone in the room felt their magnanimous weight. This was bigger than Varian. This was bigger than Eugene and Rapunzel.

It would take all of them to put the pieces of Varian’s broken self back together again. 

And they would be there. 

_________________

Under the pretense of fatigue, Rapunzel was able to chase the company from her room just short of a half-hour later. Of course, she was not really tired—well, she _was_...but she wasn't going to sleep. 

Waiting another couple minutes for any stragglers to depart from the hallway, Rapunzel crept to her door and peered out into the expansive corridor. Upon not seeing anybody, she quietly exited and padded across the carpet to the guest quarters a few doors down. 

From what Eugene had said, Varian was still likely asleep, but that’s not who she was sneaking out to see. Not really. 

She needed to speak with Quirin. 

The door to Varian’s room creaked minutely as she eased her way inside, but the sound was enough to alert the man sitting vigilantly at his son’s bedside. Quirin turned his head to meet her sheepish smile, offering her a weak twitch of his own lips before turning back to the sleeping boy on the bed. 

Taking that as a sign of her welcome, the princess moved closer, pulling up a chair of her own to sit opposite to the father of a boy who just couldn't seem to catch a break. 

A thick silence permeated the air like cotton in her throat as Rapunzel tried to find the words she longed to speak. Varian was such a sensitive subject right now and she didn't know how much Quirin knew or where to even begin—

“The captain informed me of what’s been going on with my son since we last sat in a position such as this. Not just the attack from tonight, but all of it. The nightmares, the visions—and apparently how haunted he truly is by everything he’s done and been through.” Quirin’s voice was gruff, muffled by the hands that held his forehead. 

“He told me how my boy has woken up screaming from the demons in his head—how he nearly walked himself into a crater in the ground—how he threw himself in front of a sword because he apparently thinks his life is worth less than anyone’s around him. And I can't help but wonder: _where was I?_ ”

Rapunzel’s expression fell at the utter contempt the man held in his voice for himself as it bled through his words. “Quirin…”

“After the explosion, even after I promised myself I would be _better_ , I still didn't notice anything was wrong. I still left him alone to fight these battles on his own because I thought he was _fine_. What a fool I was.

“And now—now he’s here, again. Hurt, _again_ , and thinking he deserves it and I—I—I don't know how to fix it.” Woeful eyes of a woeful father raised to stare across the viscous space between the pair. His gaze was met with somber, green eyes. _Hopeful eyes._ “What if I can't fix this?” 

Rapunzel didn't respond at first as she felt his words’ resounding resonance deep in her heart. She turned her gaze to watch the soft rise and fall of Varian’s chest beneath the pile of blankets. Even in sleep, he did not appear free from his nightmares, as his lips were slightly downturned in a grimace of anguish. 

For a moment, some deep, motherly instinct longed to touch his face and wipe free those signs of pain. 

She wished she could pull his heart and mind free from his body, wrap her long, glowing locks around them and sing him to a land of peace. 

But she could do neither of those right then, so she, instead, turned back to the man before her with a countenance of molded conviction. “I don't think this is something that we _fix_. When—when we _fix_ something, it’s because it cannot fix itself on its own. Because it does not have the capabilities or the strength. 

“But Varian—he _is_ strong. More than I think any of us will ever truly know. Right now, he’s also in so much pain—he’s hurt, deeply. There’s something inside of him that has been so grievously wounded that it seems impossible to fix. But it doesn't _get fixed_. It _heals_ —as all wounds do. With time and with our support, he will heal. I believe in that. I believe in _him_.”

The princess and the father shared a wane smile, one born of hope and the other of trust. 

And, at that moment—before any other words could be spoken—a faint groan emitted from the boy of their faithful affections. 

_________________

By the time Eugene and Lance received news of the kid’s awakening and made it back to the room, Varian was conscious and propped up in bed by his father’s arm while he choked down a few sips of water. 

His side smarted with even the slightest of movements as the skin would pull on the new set of stitches Galen had gifted him with. 

Varian was grateful to have been unconscious when he came in, for surely he would have otherwise received an irate (and, though the man would deny it, concerned) lecture from the physician about the perks of self-preservation. 

“Hey, little man!” Lance’s greeting was the only warning the alchemist received before his large, burly arms were wrapped tightly around his body, squeezing him for all he was worth. 

Rapunzel quickly swatted the man on the shoulder as she chided, “Careful Lance! Varian just woke up.”

But the boy couldn't have cared less, as he laughed from his place beneath the mountain of a man holding him close. “I’m okay—i-it’s good to see you too, Lance.” 

Eugene approached more slowly, moving to Rapunzel’s side so he could rest a timid hand on the kid’s shoulder once Lance backed away. “You okay, goggles? You gave me quite a scare tonight…” And though he tried to play it off as a chuckle, the unnerved tone that tainted his voice was not lost on the room’s occupants. 

“I’m okay. Just a-a little sore, I guess. No big deal.” 

“Kid—Varian, it is a big deal. You were—why would you jump in front of me like that? Do—do you really not care about what happens to you?”

“Of course I do!” Varian’s voice was caught between the throes of offense and uncertainty—offended that they believe he cares so little for himself—uncertain of the possibility that, perhaps, it was true. “I—I just didn't want you to get hurt! It was my fault in the first place—it was my creation that made Cass attack.”

“No, Varian, that’s not true!” Rapunzel’s eyes were wide as she grabbed at his hand, pulling his entire attention to her. “It wasn't you—it was Zhan Tiri. I—I saw her there after the amber was fired—she was the one who pressed the trigger.”

“Zhan Tiri—but how—” His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, hardly able to comprehend that the demon of legend—Cassandra’s apparent _ally_ —would do such a thing. _For what?_ “I-it doesn't matter. I shouldn't even have made it, so yeah—it was my fault.”

Turning back to face Eugene, he mumbled, “I couldn't let you get hurt for something I did. You didn't deserve it—”

“And you did? Varian, I don't think you get it—you could’ve been seriously injured!”

The boy jumped from the bed, though not without a pained grunt, breaking through the barrier of the bodies closing in around him. _Surrounding him—cornering him_ — _suffocating him._ “So what?! Better me than you!” 

The anger was back, rippling from his tongue and his heaving chest in waves. It was an emotion he tried to hide—not wanting to indulge in such wretched feelings lest they turn him away from the people he so cared about for good. He couldn't go back to that—to the abandonment and the hate. But he couldn't seem to rein this anger in anymore, either. 

Lance’s own expression saddened with Varian’s exclamation. The kid had been through hell and back, yet he still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that his past didn't justify this agony he was in—that, no matter what he had done, he didn't deserve _this_. 

“Varian, this—this mindset you’ve got yourself trapped in—it’s _wrong_. You don't deserve any of this. It doesn't matter what you’ve done in the past. That doesn't make your pain okay. You’re suffering but you won't let us in. This can't go on. You—you need help.”

The man held out a hand—a beacon of light and hope, praying for the young boy to take hold and accept the proffered support. 

Instead, he backed farther away, hunched in on himself like a cornered animal looking for a chance to escape the approaching hunter. “I—I’m _fine_ . I don't _need_ your help!”

“Son...” Quirin was on his feet, demurely approaching the frightened child with his hands held up—a gesture of peace. “Please—you _do_ need help. Whatever it is you're going through, you don't have to do it alone. You have friends by your side—you have _me_.”

“I—I—”

“It’s okay to admit when you're _not okay_. It doesn't make you weak. Son—you are the strongest person I know.” The anguished father shared a brief look with Rapunzel. “That we all know. But this—these nightmares and visions—they’re not—”

“You told him?” Varian’s voice was low, suddenly—quiet and forbidding. The words were cold, caught in a crystalline lattice of ice and surrounded by the deadliest of spears as they rocketed towards Eugene with the sudden dark gaze that turned his way. “You—you told him? You—I—I trusted you. I confided in you and you _told_ _my dad?_ I—I’m not a child! I—”

“Varian, please!” Rapunzel’s hand touched his shoulder, but he pulled back with a yowl as though she burned him. Her eyes flashed with a panicked fright and a horrible sadness that cut him to the bone, but he could not think beyond the pounding of his heart and the tightening of his throat. 

_Wrong—wrong—this was all going wrong—they weren't supposed to know—_

The princess held her hand close to her chest, wrapped protectively in the other. “This is getting out of hand. Please just let us help you! You’re hurting yourself, you’re hurting others—you—” her voice was severed with a gasp as a wracking chill swept over the room. “Wait—n-no, Varian—I—I didn't mean it like that—”

But it was too late. The words had spilled, and with them spilled the red blood that kept his beating heart alive. Down—down it fell. Its beat stuttered and the blood turned black and grey— _lifeless._

“Why—why do you put up with me, then? If—if I’m such a danger, a monster—” the word was spat from his tongue, its vile taste the only ashened remains as he finally erupted with the storm that billowed inside, voice rising in volume and uncontained agony with every uttered word. “—to everyone around me, even to myself, then _why am I still here?_ ”

Someone distraughtly called his name—he couldn't tell who—couldn't hear their voices anymore. Blood thundered in his ears and a smile— _his_ smile flashed before his eyes. This— _this_ is what Death had been telling him all along.

It was coming true _—it was true. He was right._

“You wanted to talk, _princess?_ Fine—let’s talk. Let’s talk about how fucked up I really am. Let’s talk about how I’ve been seeing a fucking embodiment of Death since the explosion and he’s been _in my head_ every waking and sleeping moment! 

“He tells me himself about how much of a screw up I am—about how much you all don't want me here. And I—I didn't want to believe him— _I didn't._ But—but I—I don't know—” Varian’s chest heaved with his labored breaths, throat burning as his shouts tore the tender flesh to threads. 

His cheeks were wet. 

Looking up, to the figures around him, he could see theirs were wet, too. 

“I heard you, you know.” The rapid change in pitch—from desperate and screaming to low and defeated—was enough to give them whiplash. “When—when I was unconscious and trapped in my own mind—I heard you. Your voice. You were singing and—and then you were asking me to come back—to come _home_. You said you all wanted me, and I—I listened, but—

“Why?” The question was spoken so brokenly, so completely and utterly from the depths of his ruptured heart and mind. “Why would you do that? Why did you do that to me? I—why did you want me back—why did you save me? 

“I don't deserve it. I don't want it. I didn't want it! I— _I don't want to be here anymore!_ I don't want to feel like this anymore. I’m sick of it—I’m tired! I want out, I want to get away from it! I can't do this anymore! You shouldn't have saved me. It would have been better for everyone! For you—for me—I—I don’t—I—I— _I wish I had stayed dead!_ ”

At last, the words were free. His deepest thoughts were free. 

He was free. 

He was broken, defeated. His hands were stained red with his own blood as he tore into his chest and ripped out the wicked organ that dared keep beating when he longed for it to stop. 

He yearned to be free. 

And so, despite the cries of the people around him and despite the tears that marred their skin, the shattered boy turned and fled—ran from the room of wicked words and the room of unfixable brokenness. 

He ran from himself and from the golden light that gently glimmered from the sun. 

The sun— _the sun_. He supposed he had broken her too. 

Oh, how fucked up he truly was. 

He ran and he ran, his feet never stopping as his broken body carried his broken heart and mind through the broken castle of a broken kingdom. 

He did not stop until he reached the cliffs that stared out upon the rippling sea and the smiling moon. 

It was a cruel reminder of his horrid nightmares—the dark void filled with biting dark waters that swirled with the blood of those he would inevitably destroy. 

That is, if he hadn't destroyed them already. 

He was a danger, a menace, a monster—he killed everything he dared to touch and to love. 

Before him, from just over the edge of the cliff and out of the crashing waves, rose a figure. 

_His_ figure. 

Death’s smile was gentle, gleaming white teeth no longer looking so sharp and deadly. His eyes were dark, but no longer so appallingly lustful for his flesh. His claws were reaching—reaching for him— _asking_ for his hand in return _._

The tears fell, unbidden, from his broken blue eyes. 

Below him, the claws drew nearer, _reaching—reaching—asking_ —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read. 
> 
> [first off: hopefully this even longer chapter makes up for my absence. I didn't want to split any of this up because all of it combined has contributed to getting everyone to the mindset in which they are now] 
> 
> We’ve reached rock bottom. We’re at the point where Varian isn't sure he can keep up this fight. It’s hard. He’s tired. He’s been through so much trauma that it does not seem as though it will relent, especially with Death still lingering around in his mind and corrupting his thoughts. He has a lot to work through and a lot of battles left to fight. 
> 
> Everyone longs to help him—so, so badly. They just want him to see how much he is loved and wanted. But their approach didn't seem to work so well here. Confrontation can be good—but it can also be very bad. Emotions such as these are a delicate situation. Blunt force doesn't always do the trick. Unfortunately, that seems to have been their tactic and, while it did force the words from Varian’s mouth, it also hardened his barriers and turned him away. 
> 
> Hopefully they can do better in the next chapters.
> 
> There is no formula to grief and there is no “right way” to cope in the face of trauma. I study neuroscience and psychology, but feelings such as this are so much more than textbooks and facts. They are so much more than can be put into words. 
> 
> My heart goes out to all who suffer from any of these same emotions and feelings. My thoughts are with you, always. 
> 
> Especially in these hard times right now, when you feel overcome by the darkness of the world—you are not alone. May you find light in the darkness, companionship in loneliness, peace in despair. 
> 
> May you fight your battles and win.


	12. "Won't you pull me out?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my lovely readers. 
> 
> Thank you for such kind words in the last chapter. That was a dark one. A deep one. I was honestly a little afraid to tackle it for I was unsure I would do it justice. I feared to write it wrong—but as I had said, there is no formula to grief and to pain. There is no “right” or “wrong” in the name of emotion.
> 
> Thank you for your support thus far. Thank you for your kind remarks. And so much love to all who have felt this story resonate within. This is just as much for all of you as it is for Varian. 
> 
> (also, new story summary in place! it still might change again cause idk how I feel about it)

_Hear you falling and lonely, cry out_  
_"Will you fix me up? Will you show me hope?"_

_(vancouver sleep clinic - someone to stay)_

A cool sea breeze ruffled softly through his hair. It was calming—comforting. But it wasn't the hands of the wind. Not really. 

It was the moon. 

He didn't know how he knew, but he did. He could feel her gentle fingers as they lightly touched his body and cupped his chin. He could see her tender smile as she gazed down upon him. He could hear her melodious voice thrumming deep in his own chest, crescendoing and quelling in time with his own beating heart. 

He ached with an unbearable pain—an unrelenting pain—that centered in his chest and echoed in his every fiber with a burning fury. It was a wicked torrent of blood and ash that flowed through his veins and set fire to his muscles and bones from the inside out. _  
_

Varian’s knees wobbled under his faltering frame until he could stand no longer. The damp grass muffled the sound of his limbs hitting the ground, while the hitching of his breath was carried away in the dancing air.

His cries circled in the sky, each whispered word and stifled sob tumbling over on end as they were whisked out to their new home on the horizon—until Varian could no longer see his own sorrows. 

Perhaps he could forget them, too, in time.

Small drops of leftover rain fell against his skin like pinpricks of a reminder that he was still alive—could still feel everything around him and in him. 

He wished for it to stop. He wished to be numb to it all, if only for a moment. 

_They cast you out into a blizzard as though you were nothing—_ _because_ _you were nothing._

All at once the rain turned to a memory of snow as it pelted his flesh and surrounded him with a cold he didn't know could exist. Those words echoed in his mind. They were some of the first Death had spoken to him. It was the first tragic scene his tormentor had painted in his head.

The first of many. Truths—lies—tricks—realizations. Of all he had seen...what was true? What was false? 

Varian didn't know. 

The blizzard—that had been true. They had thrown him out. But was it really because they didn't care? At the time, that was what he had believed.

The pain on Rapunzel’s face when he betrayed her—her sorrow when they had finally sat down to apologize and _talk_ for the first time since his reformation—that had been true, too. 

She had cared. She _still_ cared. He knew that, _he did._

 _You are worthless to them—to everyone around you. They look at you and they see a monster. They look at you and they want you_ _gone_ _._

The painting—his portrait and his glowing green eyes on Rapunzel’s wall had been real. And it’s true: he had been a monster. Once upon a time, he had been the villain. 

_If I can't have a happy ending, then neither can you!_

_It's not enough until you endure the same amount of pain and agony I have!_

But he wasn’t—not anymore. That he knew. That he believed. 

The rage, the hatred and contempt—he no longer felt it. He no longer craved vengeance or blood or whatever he had once been after. Death had tried to convince him otherwise. He had tried to tell Varian he was still that same monstrous fourteen year old boy. 

But he was _wrong_. 

And if that was wrong...perhaps he could've been wrong about more. About it all. 

_After everything you’ve done, we will_ _never_ _forgive you. You’re not wanted, you don’t belong here._ _We want you gone_ _._

Rapunzel and Eugene had appeared to him in the darkness—had so callously turned him away from their hearts. Lance had claimed his death at Varian’s hands, as had his father. 

But none of that was true. Rapunzel and Eugene had both been by his side through it all. Lance—his father—both were alive and well. Both had been adamant that Varian was not to blame for his mistakes. His father was _proud_. 

It appears, too, that Death had been wrong about that. 

His—his mother…

_Maybe if you had been better, I would still be alive._

He didn't know the truth of her death. Quirin had never talked much about his mother—had always turned him away when he asked.

But that had never truly been her. It had been Death so cruelly disguised in her form—a fake—a fraud. How could he trust the word of some ruthless creature that had done nothing but tear him down to bleeding pieces? 

His friends—his family…

Death had said he wasn't wanted. He had said he had nothing to fight for—that there was nothing for him to return to. He had only sought for Varian to give in to his supposed sweet release. It had never been about honesty. 

It had never been about him finding _happiness_. 

_We want you—we need you to come back to us! We’re nothing without you. We can’t lose you._

Rapunzel’s voice had flowed through the void in his time of greatest need—had guided him forth from the darkness and led him _home_. He told her he didn't deserve it—and perhaps he didn't—but he did _want_ it. 

She didn't know just how deeply she had struck him in that time. She had _saved_ him. 

_You’re not alone in this, Varian. Whatever it is you’re going through—you’ve got people who are here for you. I’m here for you._

Eugene—his brother. He, too, had offered solace amongst the chaos of his beating heart. 

From Lance: _It doesn't matter what you’ve done in the past. That doesn't make your pain okay_.

From his father: _It’s okay to admit when you're not okay. It doesn't make you weak._

Death was _wrong_. 

They wanted him. They had never stopped wanting him. 

This whole time—they had been saving him all along. He just hadn't felt it until now. 

He had called himself broken. He had felt himself shatter into pieces that he hadn't thought could be put back together again. He had been so hurt—so deeply pierced by an anguish that he did not think could be fixed and so he had given into the despair that wrought his mind. He had allowed Death to worm his way through the fortresses around his body and pour poison into his blood. 

But Death had been wrong. 

Perhaps he had been broken. Perhaps that had been true. But somewhere along the lines, when he hadn't been paying attention, his skin had slowly begun to sew itself back together. His heart had slowly begun to bleed a vibrant red once more with every resilient beat that echoed in his chest. 

Its beats—oh how _precious_ they were! 

His heart—his mind—his bones—his flesh and blood. All these pieces that were a part of him.

They were scarred. They were beaten and bruised and crudely stitched whole. 

_  
  
_

They were so _beautiful_. 

Below him, the claws curled tightly on the cliff’s edge, digging into the dirt in the way they longed to pierce his flesh and make him bleed. 

Varian would not reach out in return. He would not take Death’s hand. 

He was in pain, but he did not want to die. 

He was not ready. 

Varian had yelled—had cried his wish for death. He had spoken words of exhaustion with the world and pleaded to be set free. 

What he hadn't realized was that, in doing so, he had already been set free. 

He felt it now—the freedom, the weightlessness. For the first time in these treacherous weeks, he did not feel the heavy burden of gravity bearing down upon his body. His shoulders did not sag under the immense weight of anguish and his chest no longer tightened with every continued breath of stale, ashen air. 

He could breathe again. He could _feel_ again. 

Every fiber of his being was suddenly awash with renewed hope and vigor. A match had been ignited in his veins and its power coursed through every vibrating cell and tissue. A hunger burned deep inside—it craved and gnawed its gnashing teeth for a fight like no other. 

Varian would not refuse it. 

He would fight. Dammit, he would fight this coming war if it took everything he had because he wanted to _live_. It was not over, but he would not submit at the hands of his enemy—his tormentor. 

Death would not win. 

* * *

There were no words passed between the figures that raced along the darkened streets of the kingdom. Frantic eyes scoured every ally, every shadow for a silhouette of the boy who had torn out their hearts, set fire to their lungs, and ran off into the night.

_I don't want to be here anymore! I wished I had stayed dead!_

Those words—had he meant them? 

Had he felt like this all along and they had just been too wretchedly blind to see it? 

Did he believe they didn't care? 

Those questions and thoughts throbbed beneath their skin, but no answers would be found until they found him first. 

They only hoped they weren't too late. 

There were no signs of Varian’s route, but the princess’s feet seemed to move of their own accord. She didn't know the whys or the hows, but she could feel some indiscernible force pulling her in a predetermined direction. 

So she let it pull. 

And when the group cleared the last of the townhouses to greet the open air, Rapunzel _did_ understand the whys, and, perhaps, the hows as well. 

An ethereal trail of moonlight—invisible to the naked eye (to any eye not part of a body containing literal magic?)—danced along the ground, twisting and turning through each blade of grass that, too, swayed to the sound of music. It was guiding her to the cliffs. 

If she listened close, Rapunzel thought she could even hear the moon’s sweet whispers in her ear. 

_He is safe, my dear sundrop. He is waiting for you._

But she would rather wait for visible evidence before such comforts could slow the rapid beat of her pounding heart. 

No one seemed to question her direction, trusting her as the queen she would one day be. 

Trust—a fickle thing. She prayed theirs would not prove mistaken. 

It seemed, for once, luck was on her side, for as they came upon the island’s ledge, she immediately spotted Varian’s small form at the edge with his back to them. 

Her stomach lurched as her throat tightened with the realization of just how close he was to the hundred-some foot drop into unforgiving waters. Was he going to—? 

The moon’s words came back to her. It had not been a warning—it—it had been a reassurance. Squinting, she could discern with greater detail that, although he was in frightening proximity to the cliff, he was not poised to jump. He was sitting with his feet dangling over the edge. He was not tensed with fury or agony, but slumped with...acceptance? Submission? She could not tell. 

Several yards from his position, Rapunzel motioned the others to stop. 

_He is waiting for you._

She had no doubt that every one of them longed to speak their love to him and wrap him tight in their embraces of warmth and consolation. They needed to hear that he did not mean his words. Oh, how they so _needed_ it. 

But, right now, this was not about what they needed. It was about Varian. It was about what _he_ needed. 

If he needed space, they would give it to him. If he needed comfort, they would damn well give it to him. 

But if he truly meant what he had said, then he, too, would need their support. They would have to accept that. There would be no convincing him he was wrong to feel such a thing. It would only end in disaster. 

No—if he meant his words, then there would be no changing _him_. For, in the end, it meant only that they were to blame. _They_ would have to learn to understand it. _They_ would have to show him that, even if he felt that way, he no longer had to. 

This was not on him at all. This was not his fault. He did not have to change or hide how he felt to make them feel better. They had to change themselves—make themselves _better_ so he didn't have to feel this pain anymore. 

They would give him a reason to stay. 

But first—Rapunzel had to speak to him, alone. 

She had to show him that there was hope for light in his darkness. For she had been there, in a way. She had to show him that he _could_ heal before they doctored his wounds. 

_He is waiting for you._

Well, she would make him wait no longer. 

Her bare feet were silent in their trek to his side at the edge of the cliff. He did not turn to greet her, but she knew her presence was not unfelt. Rapunzel stood tall for a moment longer, allowing the wind to wrap around her body in a tight embrace as she basked in the moonlight. 

She sat down beside him, neither moving to outright acknowledge the other just yet. Instead, they shared a moment of peace as they gazed out upon the glittering water.

“I’m sorry.” Varian’s voice was soft—almost inaudible, despite the fact that he was right beside her. 

“You don't have to apologize, Varian. You shouldn't be sorry for feeling the way you do. Just—just because it hurts doesn't mean you’re wrong to feel that way.”

“I—I don't even know what I feel anymore. I don't—what I said, I didn’t mean it, Rapunzel. I’m just...I was so confused. But I didn't mean it—I—I’m glad you saved me. Please know that. And—and I know that you all care so much for me. I think I always knew that. He just—Death has this way of getting under my skin and—and he makes me believe things that I know aren't true. I just—” the boy heaved a sigh. It was so impossible to put into words the storm that brewed beneath the surface. 

“I—I know how you feel.” At the boy’s startled glance in her direction, Rapunzel’s eyes fluttered closed, searching for the strength within her to admit her own demons. 

“Back when I was in the tower, I didn't know any other life than that one. I didn't know any other love than what Gothel showed me. And I know, now, that she had never truly cared for me, but it had still felt so real—I had always believed—had always _hoped_ —that she loved me the way I loved her. 

“Gothel—she had wormed her way into my head and made me believe things that weren't true. She—she was cruel. She abused me and disguised it as love. And, no matter what she did, she always managed to convince me it was my fault—that I brought her anger and such pain upon myself. Be-because I wasn't obedient enough. Because I wasn't good enough.”

She felt a gentle hand rest upon her shoulder, but she did not allow herself to stop. If she stopped, she feared she would never be able to finish. “The worst part—when—when she fell from the tower, I still reached out for her. 

“Even after I had learned the truth and realized she had only ever been using me—had never really loved me—I still reached out to try to save her. I still mourned her loss, still thought of her as ‘Mother’ because that’s what she made me believe. That was all I had ever known.”

Varian was silent for only a moment as he digested her mournful tale. Softly, hesitantly, his voice mumbled the question she knew his heart yearned an answer to. “How did you deal with it? How—how did you make those feelings go away?”

“It wasn't easy,” she expelled a harsh breath, caught somewhere between a derisive chuckle and a sob. “After I found my real parents and moved into the castle, it still took me months to stop referring to Gothel as ‘Mother.’ It took a long time to fully realize the lies in her words—to understand just how deeply she had corrupted my thoughts. 

“But…I also realized I wasn't alone anymore. I had my parents and I had Eugene—and I knew they loved me in exactly the way I loved them. They made sure I never felt alone again and that I knew I deserved more than what I had had. And that kind of love—that love was so much more than what Gothel had ever made me feel. In time, with their support, I was able to see the truth in the world and put her lies behind me.” 

His head was bowed, eyes glossed over as Varian stared down at the raging waters in deep thought. 

Behind her stood his pillars of strength: Quirin, Eugene, Lance—his _family_. This boy—this wounded, lost boy—was at his crossroads. He was at the point in a dark wood at which the paths diverged. And he did not know which way to go. He needed light. He needed _them_ to hold the candle and guide him home. 

Slowly, at her gesturing wave, they stepped forward to stand before the one who craved their presence. 

They did not speak. They did not move to force Varian into action. They would not make that mistake again. 

Time rolled around them in waves as the boy continued to gaze out upon the water. Unseen to them, the claws clutched at the cliffside, a skeletal hand still outstretched for Varian’s returning grasp. 

He would not reach back. 

He wanted life—he wanted to _live_ , inexplicably. His heart resounded in his chest, beating only for the chance to beat again. 

This would not be its end. 

Varian turned, at last, away from the frothing sea and from the sweet lure of Death. Climbing to trembling feet, his blue eyes resolutely raised to find those looking back at him. He still spoke not a word as they faced each other in silence. His hand unfurled from his side to help the princess to her feet. 

“I—I think I’m ready to talk about it now.” The boy turned his gaze back, once more, but he did not look to the ocean. 

He looked to the moon. He met her smiling eyes and he smiled in return. 

Unable to resist, his glanced momentarily to the edge of the cliff—to wear Death had been reaching for him. Had been waiting for him. 

The claws were no longer there. 

“It’s time I tell you the truth.” _  
_

* * *

They had decided to forgo the return to Varian’s guest chambers while he told his tale, choosing instead to crowd together in one of the castle’s many sitting rooms with mugs of hot cocoa clutched tightly in their grasps. 

The boy himself sat on the couch with his father on one side and the princess on the other, his head bowed over his cup as its warm steam curled around his features. 

Varian had said he was ready, but why was the truth still so hard to tell? His tongue sat heavily in his mouth, jaw clenched as he mulled the words over in his mind. 

There was so much to say. There was so much truth to reveal that he feared it would take a lifetime to tell it all. 

He had asked where to start. 

They had told him from the beginning. 

But did it really start with Death’s first appearances? Should he tell them of the fear that had plagued him in the last year—the fear that they would, one day, abandon him once more—that they would realize he wasn't worth the effort? Should he tell them of the darkness that had shadowed his mind when he lost his father to the amber—when he lost himself to his rage?

When had it truly begun? 

“I—I remember darkness. I woke up and I was in this place that seemed to go on forever. It was dark and there was water on the ground. It was cold. And this—this _thing_ came out of the shadows. He called himself Death.” 

A wracking shiver ran up his spine at the remembered touch of those cruel hands that held him—that had toyed with him and hurt him. Someone’s hand squeezed his shoulder, but an involuntary flinch chased it away. “He—he wore a cloak and his skin was so white—white as bone. Where he should have had eyes, there was only black, but—but when he looked at me—” Varian’s breath hitched as he fell into the memories. He could see him now, as though the figure stood before him at that very moment.

“His smile—his teeth were so sharp and—and his smile was— _inhuman._ _He_ was inhuman—wicked—sadistic—. And his hands—he would touch me—softly one moment and then he would tear my skin the next. He—he wanted my blood, I think. He had mentioned it, once. 

“He spoke to me, taunted me. He told me no one wanted me, that I was nothing—a _monster_. He showed me... _horrible_ things. All of you—you were there, and you told me you hated me and—and I saw the amber—and—and I saw my mother.” 

From his side, Quirin inhaled sharply as he reeled away from his son ever so slightly. Eugene and Lance shared a quick, anxious glance. This was more than they had ever imagined. It was so much worse than they had dared to think. 

Varian continued without pause, without a momentary notice to the tension in the air around him. “But it wasn't her. Not really. It was only Death trying to trick me again. Trying to make me stay.” 

His voice was a murmur, soft but steady as he recounted the horrors. He spoke as though it was not his story to tell—as though he were merely reciting some outdated history book and not a scene of nightmares. 

The tale went on, well into the night and he told it all. He recounted Death’s tricks, one by one. 

The blizzard, the painting of glowing green eyes—him, shoving a sword into his own father’s gut and watching him die with a lasting look of resentment and blame. 

The nightmares—the visions—memories and delivered executions. The voices. It had all been there from the start. Death had been there, all along, slowly breaking Varian apart before their eyes. 

All his mistakes, all his failures were brought to life in the night—in the darkness that corroded his brain. 

When the telling got too hard, they waited. They shared smiles and tears, joy and sorrows. But they did not stop—they did not go to sleep for the story to be told another night because this was their one chance. 

If he stopped now, he didn't know if he could start again. 

Lance gruffly cleared his throat following another bout of troubled silence. “Is—is that what you saw—when we were painting? You—we only saw it briefly before—but it was—it looked—”

“Deranged? Disturbing?” A scathing chuckle bled from Varian’s lips. “It was. Insane, that is. I—I don't know exactly what had happened. I got caught in my mind and I heard his voice and—and next thing I knew, I was seeing the darkness again. I was seeing _him_ again. And then I just sort of lost it.”

“Why—” Rapunzel’s voice was soft, timid. She spoke as though she was afraid to sound her question. As though she was afraid of the answer she would receive. “Why did you never tell us, Varian? Did—didn't you trust us?”

“It’s not that—not really. I just—it started off as a fear that I would sound mad. When I first woke up, I wanted to tell you all, so badly—but it was crazy! I was afraid no one would believe me.

“But then—as his words cut deeper and he got under my skin—I—I began to believe that, perhaps, he could be _right_. And I was afraid that if I told you the truth, you would only confirm what he had been saying all along. That—that you really did all still despise me and only kept me around out of—of— _pity_. That you were only biding your time before you could finally find some way to be free of me.”

“Varian…” It was his father that spoke, a tender sigh of his name that seemed to emanate from his stricken lungs. 

“I’m sorry—I am. I shouldn't have these doubts. I mean none of you ever gave me any reason to believe his words, I just—I think a part of me has always been waiting for the other shoe to drop since I got out of prison and—and—I don't know, really. 

“I guess I’ve just been waiting for me to make another mistake or let myself get a little too angry and you all would realize I had never changed—that you wanted me gone again and would throw me back behind bars. And I would deserve it.” 

The boy ducked his head to try to hide the tears that pooled in his eyes, but he knew he couldn't fool them. The trembling of his hands was enough to give him away. 

A hand reached out to lift his chin, to raise his eyes to the room around him so that he might proudly display his pain. After all, pain was nothing to be ashamed of. It was just a part of being human. 

The fact that he felt it was a reassurance that he, too, could heal from it. Its throbbing ache could fade away. 

Eugene knelt before him, deep brown eyes reflecting his own inner anguish. “Varian—there is nothing you could ever do that would make us abandon you again. Okay? Whatever mistakes you may make—make them. Whatever anger you may feel—feel it! It will not change who you’ve become and it will not change how much we all love you, kid. You’re family to us and family sticks together, through the good and the ugly.”

“Well…” Lance stepped forward to nudge Varian playfully on the shoulder, though his features reflected his own heart’s expression of affection. “Maybe lay off on the attempted regicide. That might cause a few problems.” 

A beat of silence passed over the room. 

Varian’s head fell forward against his chest, once more, as his shoulders began to shake. His chest hitched with some strangled sound. 

Eugene shot the man a dirty look as Rapunzel and Quirin each immediately reached out, hoping to repair this apparent renewed damage before it could even begin. 

But—a snort echoed from the trembling boy and his labored breaths turned to quiet chuckles.

Varian was—? 

His hands reached up to cup his face. The chuckles grew in volume and in power, soon giving way to dazzling peals of laughter. 

He was laughing. _He was laughing_ and it was, perhaps, the most beautiful sound that room had heard. 

Eugene adamantly ignored Lance’s smug look from behind his shoulder while Rapunzel hesitantly allowed her own mellow chuckles to fill the air. 

Once the laughter ebbed and their breaths settled, Varian looked to his family once more. “I am sorry, though, for what I said in my room. I didn't mean it. Even in the moment, I don't think I had ever meant it. 

“I was just—I was confused and tired of his torment and I just sort of freaked out—lost control. When I ran to the cliffs, I was never planning to jump or anything. I just needed to get away from it all for a moment. He was there, though. Death was at the cliffs and he wanted me to join him, but I wouldn't. I would never. 

“Standing there, beneath the moon and watching the sea, it all just hit me. How much pain he had caused me—how he had somehow twisted my thoughts into something I knew, deep down, wasn't true. And I realized how _wrong_ he was. How much you all care for me and I for you.”

He turned, slowly, allowing his piercing blue eyes to meet every returning gaze around him. Lance—Eugene—Rapunzel—his father. 

His _family._

“I realized that, despite these awful feelings, I want to live. I want to get better. He’s been playing this game within me for long enough. I don't want to let him win. 

“But I think I need your help.” 

As those final whispered words jumped from the edge of his tongue and into the canyon of the earth, their melodious sounds ringing loudly for all to hear, Varian felt a weight lift from his shoulders. 

_It’s okay to admit when you're_ _not okay_ _. It doesn't make you weak._

_You’re not alone, Varian. Don't ever forget that._

He needed help, but that was okay because they were all there for him. He wasn't alone anymore. He didn't have to be alone ever again. 

Rapunzel’s embrace surrounded him with a warmth he had longed to feel for so long. It was soon followed by the arms of another—and another—and another. They encompassed him with such passion and feverish love that he felt its tender fingers reach straight through his chest and into his beating heart. 

His resounding heart. 

It was a beautiful feeling—a beautiful beat. 

From the other side of the veil of tempestuous feeling that flooded his veins, he heard the princess’s voice. 

“We will fight this, Varian. Together. We will beat him. _You_ will beat him.

“And I know just who to go for help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws in just a dash of Moon Varian* “heck yeah—just you wait!” 
> 
> ANNOUNCEMENT 
> 
> 1\. I created a tumblr for this account: allthestarsandi.tumblr.com. I have no idea how tumblr works so this is gonna be fun. 
> 
> 2\. I have a huge secret for you all and I don't think I can keep it hidden any longer. This has been brewing since around  
> chapter 7 or 8. It’s been long enough. Imma drop a hint in the next chapter. Be on the lookout!! 
> 
> (Also: bonus points to anyone who can guess who the gang is going to see)
> 
> Stay tuned!


	13. One last breath before I leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Checks date on calendar* okay-- *neck snaps as I look at the calendar again* it's been hOW LONG SINCE THE LAST UPDATE? 
> 
> So sorry guys, but writer's block hit me hard this time. But we're back and we are seeing this through to the end! And apparently I can't keep secrets, since I already revealed this on Tumblr, but we're getting some sequels! More info to come after the final chapter. 
> 
> Also: lots of of liberties taken with mythology and magic. I made most of this up so let's just pretend it makes sense and works.

_It began_  
_With a whisper in my ear:_  
_"I think it's time."_  
_Suddenly all we held dear was on the line._  
_As your heart measured in mountains fell and climbed._  
_You're okay_

_(sleeping at last - life)_

The pot of tea had long gone cold in its spot on the table as Varian finished describing his encounters with Death to perhaps the one person in Corona who could substantiate his torment. 

The night before had been arduous and trying—many tears, his and theirs, had been spilled as he laid his heart and his blackened mind out before his friends and finally revealed the truth of his nightmares. 

He had talked. They had listened. 

And now they were seeking help. 

A hushed thrumming of crystal raindrops sounded against the windows, the grey clouds casting rippling shadows along the floors of the blacksmith’s shop. The people who rushed along the town’s cobblestone streets were bundled against the wind as last night’s summer storm was rejuvenated. A chill threatened to seep through the walls surrounding the huddled group, but a low fire in the forge kept it at bay. 

The large blacksmith, himself—Xavier—, was entirely engaged in the story of horrors to which the young alchemist confessed before him. His face was a mixture of stricken sympathy and cautious intrigue. 

But beneath that, he wore a carefully concealed expression of regretful recognition. He knew of the figure that haunted Varian—had heard of him in only the most dreadful of tales. 

He hated to hear of him again, _now_ , in the words this boy spoke. 

As silence fell over the group in the aftermath of Varian’s narration, the princess turned her soft green eyes to his, an unspoken plea resonating between them and not going unheard. “We were hoping you would be able to tell us more about him, Xavier. Maybe even how to stop him.” 

“Yes…” the blacksmith sighed a weighted breath. “I have heard in passing of the creature you speak of, Varian, and I am deeply sorry that you’ve had to go through all this. But I do believe the answer you may seek lies in the legend of death itself.”

Eugene leaned forward slightly from his place beside Quirin, allowing his elbows to rest on his knees, and exchanged a quick glance with Lance, who sat across from him with Angry and Catalina on either side, the two girls having insisted on being there today after missing the events of the night before. 

“Uh, Xaves—as much as we would probably all love to hear your legend, I don't know if we really have time for that. This—this thing is real and we kind of need to get it taken care of. _Now_.”

“Ah, indeed Captain. The figure of Death is as real as you or I. Whether or not you can see him—and I do suppose, Varian, that you _can_ see him...” 

At this, Varian’s eyes darted around the shop, lingering on each darkened corner or fleeting shadow. He could see no sign of the cloaked figure’s presence, but he felt it all the same. “I—I have seen him before. Not—I don't see him now, but I can feel him. He’s here. He’s—he’s here.”

At this revelation, the others in the room tensed—them, too, craning their necks to gaze in all directions as though hoping to catch a glimpse of the malignant creature of nightmares. Ruddiger’s fur bristled as he curled tighter around Varian’s neck and shoulders. 

Xavier, however, did not startle at the news. Instead, he merely sipped from his cup looking for all the world as though he regularly hosted otherworldly demons for tea and biscuits. 

“Seeing him or not seeing him does not change the fact that he is real and walks this very earth. He is more capable than we may know. To defeat him, we must first understand him. And, Captain, you all know—perhaps better than any other—that all legends are born of truth, after all.”

To that, Eugene could not argue. After everything they had been through—meeting Demanitus, discovering Cass’s new sidekick was the evil demon sorceress Zhan tiri...even the magic of the sundrop and moonstone themselves—there was really no room anymore to doubt the truth of legends.

And so, with shared affirmative glances around the collected group, everyone pulled their seats closer to the fire as Xavier began to speak.

“Many years ago when the earth was young and its people new, there was a darkness born to this world that was unlike any other. A man of immortal nature walked the lands with a heart so cold and blackened that some said it had frozen over in the arctic tundra when he had arisen from the fiery pits of Hell. He was a devil figure—the original bringer of death. He did not abide by the laws of nature, but killed all matters of life simply for the power to do so. 

“He so wickedly defied the ways of the earth that it was deemed there had to be order and control over this power of death. And, so, the heavens sent to our world a mighty warrior who fought the creature in a gruesome battle. He carried with him a scythe of unimaginable capabilities—it could strike down even the strongest and immortal of beings. The warrior used his weapon to slice the devil into four pieces that each transformed to hold only a single methodology of death. These four figures would serve as regulators, thereby limiting any singular being from supreme power.

“The first is the bringer of natural death—the one we are, perhaps, the most familiar with. He is the one who guides those to the other side after a life long lived—a gentle, benign spirit who offers comfort in one’s last moments. The second piece is illness. She is a solemn being who takes those whose bodies can sustain them no more. The third is death by misadventure. He is an unfair being, but a necessary one. He takes no joy in the lives that fall into his hands, but must act all the same. These are the people who die in battle or in unfortunate accidents. They are terrible, but inevitable.”

The deep rumble of Xavier’s voice fell silent for a moment, breaking the spell that had befallen the room throughout the captivating legend he told. The blacksmith’s sorrowful eyes flickered to once again meet Varian’s own indecipherable expression. 

“The fourth figure, my boy, is the one who haunts you. He is a malevolent creature—indeed the most wicked of them all. 

“And his name is Todratuhele.”

As the utterance of his name permeated the thick air around them, Varian felt his skin go cold. The name itself meant nothing to him. Not really. But it was something inside him—those same parts that had lied in the treacherous black waters and had bled under the claws of Death—that reacted so violently to the word. 

He could feel them now—the claws, raking across his bare throat and curling into his hair. 

Death was here. Death was always _here_. 

Varian was sick of it—sick of _him_. He wanted him _gone_. 

“So what does he have to do with me? What does he want?” The question was bitter in his mouth and sharp as it rolled off his tongue. 

“Todratuhele is the last figure of death. He represents its darkest side: those who die from grief and from terrible inner pain. Those who take their own lives when they feel there is little left for them in the world. 

“He infests the minds of those at their absolute weakest—when they are at their most vulnerable so they are less likely to resist his calls. He speaks terrible lies, deceiving his victims and imbalancing their perceptions of reality and fabrication until they believe his words are true. He makes them see visions that aren't there—believe things that aren't true. 

“He cuts down the spirit in the attempt to lure his victims to their deaths until they think there is no other choice.”

Rapunzel’s hand slipped into the boy’s tightly clenched fist, giving his own hand a firm squeeze as a gentle reminder that she was there—that they all were there for him now. 

This is what Death had been doing to Varian for all this time—right before their very eyes and _they hadn't seen it_. How many nights had he suffered silently under his wrath? How many days? 

She loathed to consider what may have happened if they had continued to ignore it. 

Would Death have succeeded? 

Would they have lost this boy they all hold so dear?

“Todratuhele is a selfish spirit, one who hungers for any and all life that he can sink his claws into. He is not unknown for seeking out deaths by other means and stealing the souls before the other three figures can stop him. He is as evil as they come.”

One large finger rose to point in Varian’s direction as Xavier’s kind, yet remorseful eyes locked onto his own. “It appears he has _latched_ onto you, Varian. There is something about you that drew him in and I fear he won't let go until he has what he wants.”

“Well,” Catalina’s voice was timid, tremulous with the terrors her dear friend had suffered, “wha—what does he want?”

“Me.” 

Varian turned his head to observe his friends—his family. Those who had thrust themselves upon him and pieced him back together. Those who had saved him when he believed he could no longer be saved. 

“He wants me.” 

The subtle nod of confirmation from the blacksmith was still enough to plunge his stomach into the icy throes of dread. He always knew this time would come. From the moment he finally left the darkness of the void and Death’s cold grasp, he had damned himself to this final battle. 

The boy versus the demon. 

Both yearning for the same life. One to live, the other to kill.

But there was still one thing…

“Why me though? None of this explains _why_ he wants me.”

Xavier’s eyes unwittingly flickered to meet Quirin’s, a moment of unspoken conversation passing between them. Varian did not miss the motion and, too, turned to follow Xavier’s gaze to his father. 

_He hasn't told you just how special you are? Just how long I’ve been waiting for you, my child?_

The chilling tone resounded from deep within his mind. His skin rippled with a memory that had been lost to planted visions—to tearing claws and swinging swords and surging amber. Death had hinted there was more that Varian did not know. And his dad—he had said—

_It seems dear old dad has never truly stopped lying to you._

Quirin donned an unreadable expression, but his eyes held a certain awareness that seemed to confirm there was an ounce of truth to Death’s words. 

An inexplicable anger washed over the boy. Heat curdled in his gut as his hands clenched into fists. After all this time, after everything they had been through—did his father still not trust him enough to stop keeping secrets from him? The black rocks—the brotherhood—those had been secrets about Quirin’s own past life, but this—this was apparently something to do with _him_. This was something that could explain all the wretched pain his tormentor had put him through, yet he had still been kept in the dark. 

When would the secrets end? 

Hadn't he done enough to prove he deserved to know? Hadn't he done enough to earn at least a little _trust_ ? 

Varian rose to his feet, turning to fully face his father and meet his eyes. “Death had told me there was more to this than I am apparently aware of. He said you had been lying to me—that you were still keeping secrets. I didn't believe him but...it’s true, isn't it? There’s something you’re still hiding from me.”

Quirin held firm momentarily, staring back at his son as though sizing up just how sturdy Varian’s scaffolding was—as though determining whether he might just crumble with the smallest push. Something in the boy’s unwavering stance, however, must have been enough to satisfy him, for his shoulders sagged a second later with a heavy sigh. 

The man stepped closer to the boy as the heavy atmosphere settled around them. The others in the room held their breaths, no one wanting to miss the words to be spoken. 

“There is more that I haven't told you, son, but it was never because I believed you weren't ready or because I didn't trust you. I—I never told you this because it was _me_ who wasn't ready. But it seems now that it’s time I finished the story.”

As father and son settled back into the chairs by the forge, both reveling in its warmth while the rain surged on beyond the walls. Quirin took a single deep breath and a moment to steel himself for the difficult path ahead. 

“You were born early into this world—just as the last vestiges of winter left our lands. You were so small. I feared you wouldn't make it. But you did—you were so strong in that way—never willing to surrender to anything...a trait you inherited from your mother, no doubt. You lived well for two years before you fell ill with pneumonia. Galen—a younger man back then, but as wise and capable as ever—gravely revealed the sickness would take you. You were too young, too vulnerable to fight it. 

“Your mother—she had so much faith in you. She never stopped believing for a second that you would pull through. Part of me had believed she just couldn't fathom losing you—that she just couldn’t bear to accept the truth. We fought terribly those next few days, unable to come to an agreement of what to do. She yelled at me to have faith. I yelled at her to see reason.

“In the end, she agreed with me if only to appease me.”

Quirin scoffed lowly at himself, large hands gripping tightly at his knees. Perhaps he was attempting to refrain from lashing out. Perhaps he was hoping to hide their slight quivering. 

“So we left, setting off to find any way we could to save you. You were our boy, after all, and there was nothing we wouldn't do for you. As a former knight of the Dark Kingdom, I knew the place of an artifact very few others were aware even existed. It was the moonstone—something I had once vowed to guard with my life—to guard the world from. Yet there I was, taking my own son right to it. 

“But—but when we got to the castle, I—you—” The man sucked in such a pained breath as he struggled to find the words that resided in the deepest pits of his troubled heart. “Varian, you had died moments before we made it. I had held you in my arms and felt the last breath leave your body. It—it was awful and your mother—we were so devastated. For we had been too late. 

“Ulla insisted that we keep going—that we see it through. She wouldn't accept your loss lying down. I—I remember her words so clearly,” a reminiscent smile lit his face with the color of forgotten grief. These memories—oh how it must have pained him so to pull them forth from the depths of their vault. “She said, ‘We’ve made it all this way and I will not turn back until I’ve pulled the moon down from the sky and spat in her face for taking away our boy.’”

Varian couldn't keep the small grin off his face, nor could he suppress the silent chuckle at the memory of his mother. His father hadn't talked about her since he was five years old. Everytime he had attempted to ask, Quirin’s eyes had glazed over with an anguish Varian never wished to see on his father’s face. He had never wanted to answer his questions.

So he had learned to stop asking. 

“We made it to the opal’s chamber without King Edmund’s awareness, but the stone seemed to glow as though it had been expecting us. And then—then I heard her voice. It was the moon, herself, reaching out to us. To you. 

“I asked her to save you and she complied.” 

Rapunzel and Eugene did not miss the minute widening of Xavier’s kind eyes as Quirin spoke those words. Something in the tale appeared to have struck him to his core, which was startling in itself, for the wizened blacksmith had never looked so shaken. However, before they could question the large man, Quirin’s voice rose again to continue his tale. 

“A bright light had filled the room, followed by a wave of...indescribable energy—of power that surged through us and knocked your mother and I to the floor. But you stayed suspended in the air, caught in her invisible embrace. A single strip of your hair that had been lighter since birth glowed a bright, fluorescent blue momentarily before fading into the color you see now.

“And then—a quiet gasp, then a shrill cry had split the air. It was you. You were alive—she had saved you! I—we couldn't believe it. In my days living in the Dark Kingdom, I had learned to view the moonstone as a source of destruction and death—as something to be feared and contained. But there you were—having been saved by the powers of that same stone. By the moon. I never knew why. I tried to ask but she never told me why she was willing to save you when she had let her stone hurt so many others. But she did.

“Though it was only after I left that I realized at what cost.” 

A sudden shift in the air ruptured their skin, chilling everyone straight to the bone. Where he had only just been dejected, yet fond, Quirin was now absolutely anguished as images and sounds of another life replayed in his mind. 

“As we began our journey away from the kingdom, our boy exuberant once more, Ulla grew progressively more tired to the point that she could hardly carry on. It—whatever it had been—hit her out of nowhere and was quick to sap her of her vivacious spirit and energy. By the time we arrived back in Old Corona, she was deathly pale and choking on what sounded like her last breaths. 

“Galen was quick to return to our home, but by that point it was too late. There was nothing anyone could've done. He made her comfortable while I sat by her side and you slept in her weakened arms. It was only an hour later that she was gone.”

Shimmering tracks of salted tears trailed from Quirin’s clenched eyes, a single tightened fist gripping the clothing over his heart while the other was held in Varian’s own. 

The boy himself sat silently, basking in the heat that danced around the room while his chest was clutched by an icy chill. His head was bowed, allowing his dark locks to cover his face and dripping tears. 

“A life for a life. Those were the words I heard from the moon when she passed. And they were the last I had heard from her since.”

Varian’s breath caught in his throat, an unseen force tearing the soft tissue into jagged threads. She—his mother had died because of him . She had died so he could live. 

_Maybe if you had been better, I would still be alive._

Was it true? 

His mother—would she still be alive if they hadn't tried to heal him? If he hadn't gotten sick? If he hadn't been born? 

The honeyed voice of Death whispered _"yes"_ in the back of his mind. 

A strangled gasp escaped his lips before he could stop it, prompting those surrounding him to look his way. But he didn't see them. His vision was obscured by darkening shadows and reflective black water that snapped its jaws at his feet, a hand—a hand reaching out to him. 

It was his mother’s. 

But the hand had turned to claws and his mother to a billowing cloak. She had never been real. But were the words she had spoken true?

Had he really killed his own mother? 

“V? Are you okay?” Angry’s sharp voice cut through the cacophony of crashing waves that beat against his aching head. 

_My son. My wretched son. You killed your father. You killed me._

_Do you know what happens to monsters? They are punished._

A flash of piercing pain split across the back of his mouth as the memory of tearing muscle and viscous blood flowing down his throat pervaded his senses. 

“Varian?” The words were muddled—their speaker indecipherable. Hands were on his shoulders, on his arms, on his back—

They were claws tearing at his skin and exposing his bones to the fiery magma that caressed his drowning body. He was choking—choking on fire and choking on blood. He couldn't breathe—he couldn't hear beyond the static roaring in his ears. He couldn’t see—he couldn't feel beyond the skeletal hands that dug into his chest and clutched his pounding heart in a deadly cradle. 

_Make it stop—make it stop—stop—stop—STO—_

The clattering of his chair hitting the floor echoed throughout the still room as Varian jumped to his feet, staggering backwards with his hands clasped over his ears. His throat spasmed with his burning breath and stifled cries yearning to flee his body.

“I—it’s my fault?”

“What?” Rapunzel’s gasp was harsh, a sudden expulsion of air in the silence that made him flinch.

“My—my mother—she—be-because of _me_ — ”

Quirin’s hands were on his shoulders in an instant, roughly gripping the sharp bones as he knelt to look his son in the eyes. When Varian refused to meet his gaze, one hand moved to tilt the boy’s chin up ever so slightly until blue connected with brown. 

“No— _no_ , son. You cannot blame yourself for what happened to your mother. It was not your fault at all. It was only a cruel twist of fate that no one could have predicted.”

“But if—if you hadn't healed me…”

“Then I fear I would have lost your mother to grief anyway. We would never have forgiven ourselves if we had lost you, Varian. Knowing what I know now, I would still choose to save you—and I know your mother would choose the same. I know with my whole heart that she looks down on you every day, so incredibly proud of the young man you’ve grown up to be and that she, too, wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

Soft smiles were exchanged between father and son. Despite the strangled contraction of Varian’s heart, he felt lighter with Quirin’s reassurance. 

_It wasn’t his fault—it wasn't his fault—_

“So it seems,” Xavier’s baritone rumble gently eased into the moment to finish the tale, “that this is where it all began. When you had died my boy, though it was for only a brief time, it was enough to open the door to Death. He had gotten a taste of you, but had been denied by the moon, herself. 

“And Death does not like to be denied. To be told _no_.”

Wracking chills shuddered down Varian’s spine at those words. He was all too familiar with just how much Death hated to be refused—with just how far he was willing to go to get what he wanted. 

Rapunzel’s watery green eyes widened as the color drained from her face. Her slim hands raised to cover her mouth as she sucked in a jarring breath. “The Rooster—he—Varian, after the explosion, there was a short moment when we had lost you! You’re heart stopped—you—you had _died_ , again. That—that—”

“That must have been enough for Death to find you again,” Lance finished for the distraught princess. His own face was clouded by a dark war of emotions.

Varian had already forgiven him. But now, with this tremendous reveal, he wasn't so sure he deserved it anymore. 

The blacksmith nodded thoughtfully, seeming to consider his next words. “Yes—and please forgive my assumptions, Varian—but might I speculate that when he found you, he could sense an inner grief and hostility that remained for actions you had yet to forgive yourself for?”

Silence rang throughout the shop, thrumming its beat in Varian’s ears. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest, but why? It was no secret anymore that, for quite some time, he had felt a detestable loathing for himself in the wake of his crimes, feeling that he had no right to be forgiven. 

They were the very same fears and emotions Death had so sadistically toyed with. 

Though he did not answer, his expression was enough to confirm Xavier’s thoughts. 

“He is a creature that feeds off fear and pain. He attacks the rawest of emotions—those most vulnerable to his tricks. He finds those at the crossroads and offers them an escape from the place they may long to forget.”

With a sympathetic, pointed glance at Varian, he concluded, “He tricks his victims into believing they have nowhere else to go—nothing worth returning to.”

Beyond the walls of the shop, the wind sang the song of the storm, her mighty hands rattling the shutters and gripping their lungs in a tight vice until the air fled their bodies with no chance of re-entry. Drops of jeweled tears fell from the clouds that mourned their grievances. This boy—this wonderful, spirited, _tormented_ boy—

How close had he been to slipping into this demon’s cold embrace? 

Shadows from the sky rolled across the kingdom’s lands, dampening what had once been an array of shining colors. Where there had once been vibrant reds and effervescent blues and scintillating yellows, now only muted, somber hues dripped their bleeding pigments. 

But _there_ — 

A part in the clouds made way for a ray of the sun and she touched the earth with her dazzling display of life and everlasting hope. 

This boy had been broken. 

He had been beaten down and bruised and bleeding. 

But this pain, too, left his skin awash in color. In blues and purples and stark crimson. 

And color was stronger than black. Light was stronger than darkness. 

_He_ would not win. 

“So how do I get him out of my head? How do I make him—make these thoughts, these feelings go away?”

Eugene was quick to jump in, brown eyes pleading with the man for a shred of hope that there was any chance of saving his friend—his little brother—from this anguish. “There is a way, right? I—I mean there has to be _something!”_

Xavier paused to ponder the question, racking through his mind for the remainder of the legend. “I do indeed believe there is a way to defeat Todratuhele. 

“Long before the time of Demanitus and Zhan Tiri, magic roamed the earth freely, giving way to witches and sorcerers and warlocks. Some were powerful, immortal beings. Only weapons of equal power could strike them down—weapons forged in a dragon’s breath. They carried the power of death like no other and could end the life of even those destined to live forever. 

“You see, when the warrior from the heavens struck down the devil, his scythe had lain forgotten on the surface of the earth once the deed was done. Todratuhele, being as wicked as he is, stole the scythe and has since carried it with him, using it as a weapon through which he ultimately brings death upon those who relent to his tricks—for he is the only piece that meets his victims before their life is lost.”

Varian’s brows furrowed as images danced before his eyes—images of darkness and shimmering liquid and bone-white claws.

 _Empty_ bone-white claws.

“But I never saw Death carrying a scythe. He only held a weapon once, but it was just a sword and—I don't even know if it was real.”

“Ah, that is the catch. From what the legends say, I would predict that Todratuhele does not carry the weapon until he is sure his victims will give in, and, once he has succeeded, only then will he use it to deliver a final blow and destroy them once and for all. 

“But you—you are different from all the others in the stories, for you have resisted his calls. Very few have heard his voice and lived to tell the tale. I fear that he craves you more than anything now in his desire to not be beat. He will be vengeful—he will be adamant to have the prey he feels he has been denied. He will fight you, my boy, until he wins.

“When you see him again, he will likely use the scythe to end your life, whether you choose to give in or not.” 

A blanket of grim disbelief settled over the room’s occupants, their breaths growing labored in the stifling heat that had only just been a comforting warmth moments ago. 

_He would—he could—_

Could they really lose Varian _now_ , after everything? 

Lance’s voice was raspy as he choked on the shock that shook his core. “But—but—that’s crazy! We’ve all heard Varian’s experiences now. This—this—this thing has pretended to hurt him before but it was never real. He never left any physical marks! How could he actually k-kill—” A wave of untamed emotion severed the thought before he could make it known. 

But the unspoken was not unheard.

“Yes, but do not forget this is the same scythe that had been used to tear the devil into four. This is a weapon of incomparable abilities. Its powers of death are unmatched. It can be used to strike down any mortal in his realm and make it so on Earth. And I do not doubt that he will try to use it on you.” 

Xavier’s voice was gentle and placating despite the wretched truth he spoke. With a speck of conviction, of unbounded belief in the chances for victory, he turned his gaze first to the roaring fire, and then back to the young alchemist whose fate rested in his coming words. 

“But this weapon is also the key to defeating Todratuhele. It is your only hope in freeing your mind from his clutches and sending him back to the corrupted abyss from which he came. 

“With its power to destroy immortals, it also carries the power to defeat its wielder. It will not kill him—for he is an entity of death and cannot truly be killed. But if the blade meets his body, it can be enough to evict him from your mind.”

Like all good things, however, Eugene reasoned that it certainly couldn't be so simply handed to them. It could never be that _easy_. 

Waving his hands through the air, he eyed up the blacksmith with a gaze that dared the older man to prove him wrong. “This sounds great and all Xaves, but be honest with us. What’s the catch? How is the kid supposed to pull off this slicing and dicing deal with a demon that’s not even here? I mean what do we do— _summon him to us_?”

“Actually, we send Varian to him.” 

A heartbeat of silence pounded its beat in their constricted chests before all hell broke loose. 

“No. Absolutely not,” Quirin’s tone was low— _dangerous_. “You—you’re not sending my _son_ back into that place with the same creature that’s been torturing him. I won't allow it.”

“Yeah, you all heard what he’s done so far. Do you really think he’s going to just sit down for tea and hand the weapon over?” Angry’s lips drew back in a slight snarl, her dark eyes narrowed with a deep malice for the cloaked figure. 

The princess jumped to her feet, subtly placing her own body in front of Varian’s as though moved by some subconscious motherly instinct that pulled the strings on her limbs like a puppeteer. “Xavier, I believe you when you say these legends are true, but…there—there has to be another way. We can't just offer him up on a silver platter! There’s—it’s—”

“It’s not your choice to make.” 

Heads turned with a reverberating snap of the neck to stare at the boy before them. His head was bowed, eyes locked on the floorboards beneath his feet while his attention seemed to be zealously captured by a small ant traversing the wooden paths. 

“Son, what—”

“Xavier’s right, Dad. If there’s any chance in getting him out of my head, I have to take it. I—I—” Varian heaved a great breath, finally looking his father in the eyes as a million unspoken words and untold emotions buzzed through the air between them. “I can't keep living like this—with _him_. Whatever it takes, I need to be free of him.”

“Goggles—”

“Just—just hold on a second, little man—”

“He’s right.” Of all people, it was Catalina that spoke so demurely, her quaint voice only just cutting through the battlezone of well-intentioned opinions that ricocheted off the walls. “It’s no one’s choice to make but Varian’s. When you all found out I was a werewolf, you all were so fixated on getting rid of the curse—and I know you meant well—but in the end I had to decide what _I_ wanted. 

“Well this isn't any different. None of us can truly understand what he’s been through. None of us can decide what’s best for him. Varian, you shouldn't have to suffer through this and—and if this is the only way to make Death go away, then it’s a risk I think you have to take. 

“And it’s a risk _we_ all have to accept.”

A gentle smile passed between the two as their hearts swelled with a deeper appreciation for this newfound understanding the two friends shared. 

And though it hurt—though the thought wrung out their lungs and beat their hearts black and blue—the others could see just how important this was to Varian. He had been suffering for so long now. How could they stand there and ask him to bear this agony any longer just for their own sake of mind?

It was not their place. 

He was their friend, their family—a brother, a _son_. But it was not their place. 

An ailing sigh escaped Quirin’s gritted teeth as his eyes clenched shut momentarily. But it was true—and he would not stand in the way of his son’s only chance of freedom. “What do we need to do?”

For the first time since green had lit the air in a dazzling array of fireworks those many nights ago, a genuine smile pulled at Varian’s lips. It wasn't happy, per se. It wasn't tranquil or free from worry. It was a smile that spoke volumes of fear and doubt and pure exhaustion—but it was real. 

And it glistened with a trace of hope. 

It blazed with the fervent realization that he was _trusted_. That his dad believed in him—that, despite his failures and mistakes and wrong choices, despite the fact that he could very well be walking to his grave, his dad believed he could make the right decision _now_. 

Well, if Death wanted to fight, he would damn well give him one to remember. 

Xavier hefted himself from his seat, taking a moment to stretch his back, before gesturing to the door behind his shoulders. “Among many artifacts and archaic relics, I have a particular book of ancient spells and rituals in my cellar that I believe can give us what we need. There is a potion that, when mixed with a drop of blood from the victim, can send a person of choice into another realm—into Todratuhele’s realm. 

“And it is there, Varian, that you will face him. When you meet him again, he will carry the scythe and he will try to use it on you. It is up to you to get it away from him and turn it on its wielder. You must drive its blade through here,” a large finger tenderly placed its tip upon Varian’s chest, just over his beating heart. “It will not kill him, but it will destroy his power over you. It will end your connection and vanquish him from your mind.” 

The blacksmith then turned his gaze to Quirin, a lingering stare. “If you would Quirin, I could use your assistance in preparing the solution.”

Just as the man offered an affirmative nod, Rapunzel stepped forward with a resolute expression etched on her face, determined to see this battle to the finish. “We would be glad to help any way we can, Xavier.”

“That won't be necessary, princess. I do believe the two of us will suffice.” 

“Dad—” An inkling of suspicion brewed in Varian’s gut, having seen the wordless confirmation shared between the two adults. 

_But what doesn't Xavier want them to know…?_

“You stay up here with your friends, son. We’ll only be a few minutes.” 

“Might I suggest another warm cup of tea in our absence? It is as the legends say: tea is the beverage of victory and he who enters into battle does so on a full stomach!” 

With that, the blacksmith and the father turned their backs and descended into the shop’s cellar without so much as a glance back, heedless of Varian’s grumbling _“there’s no legend that says that.”_

_________________

Beneath the floorboards, Quirin lit a lantern on the wall as Xavier browsed the shelves teeming with books and bottles of various styles and hues. His fingers grazed the novels’ spines until one piqued his interest, and he immediately freed it from the masses with a curious hum. 

After a moment of perusing the pages and scouring its depths for the information he needed, the blacksmith grabbed several different bottles of mysterious contents before turning to his workbench to prepare the concoction. 

Quirin shifted awkwardly in his place by the stairwell as his presence seemed to go unnoticed, despite the fact that Xavier had requested it. The minutes ticked by, Xavier nonstop in his movements of pouring and mixing and checking his progress with the words of the book until, at last, he set the glassware down to display a final solution of an icy grey. 

As the man stared into the vial of pulsating liquid, into the frothing sea of stormy waters that surged in invisible currents, it seemed to draw him in, beckoning his body closer to its luring depths. 

This—this small vial could be his son’s savior. 

But it could also be his doom. 

Though, without it—did Varian really have anything left anyway? What would be his life if they didn't take this risk? To live in perpetual torment—to live in fear and anguish as his every worst nightmare lurked in the shadows of the night and day—

That wasn't a life. 

Perhaps this potion could be his doom. 

But wasn't he already damned? 

“It’s named the Elixir of the Lost—for those who’ve fallen under the spell of grief and despair—for those who’ve lost their way, their grip on reality and on life.” 

Xavier gently cradled the vial between his fingers, examining it beneath the flickering flame’s dancing light, before he held it out towards Quirin. The former knight took his son’s saving grace into his own grasp and, if he focused just enough—though perhaps he only imagined it—, he was sure he felt a faint thrumming that traversed the surface of his palm and burrowed deep within his blood and bones. 

The renewed silence lasted only a moment longer before Quirin squared his shoulders and turned to fully face the man before him, dropping all pretense of placid amiability. 

“Why did you really call me here, Xavier.” 

The large blacksmith did not start at the shift in tone, though his easy smile grew evidently more strained. “You never were one for beating around the bush, my old friend.” 

He only allowed a heartbeat’s worth of hesitation before meeting Quirin’s stare. “It is my strong, though undesired belief that there may be more to this madness than we currently realize. I—” a burdened sigh blew from his lungs “—I fear that on that night the moon saved your son, she did not do so merely out of charity. Gifts from the heavens can be wondrous things, but they are often not given without a price.”

“Please, Xavier—what exactly are you saying?” 

“The moon, for all her beauty, is often a selfish being. She is lit by the sun, yet claims the light as her own. She sways the tides and pulls the earth. She contains immense power. If she so willingly gifted Varian with life all those years ago, she likely did so for a reason. I cannot say what yet, but I doubt this is the last we will see of unnatural and cruel forces on Earth. 

“And, somehow, Varian falls perfectly into this scheme of hers.”

With eyes so plagued as though they had seen a thousand wars, Quirin peered hard at the ceiling above—perhaps longing to gaze right through the boards and see his son again, if only to ensure he still lived—still smiled, still breathed.

Gaze still turned upward, Quirin’s voice sounded, taut and low, “I need you to be honest with me—is my son in danger?” 

Xavier watched the man’s large frame as the fire cast haunting shadows over his form, the blackness forming shapes of malicious intent. 

“Yes. I fear he is.” 

* * *

The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, interrupted only occasionally by intermittent bouts of rumbling thunder—a promise that the summer storm had more to give. A sweltering heat drifted through the kingdom’s streets, chasing out the morning’s chill and bathing the people in a sticky sweat. 

How many hours had gone by since the tales and legends and secrets were first revealed? They didn't know. 

And how many hours remained before they could breathe their first fresh breaths of freedom? Well, they didn't know that, either. 

They only knew that the small volume of liquid clutched in Varian’s fist was their last hope for expelling the darkness from his mind for good.

“So I just—it just needs a drop of my blood? And then it’s ready?” The boy’s voice shook with a wracking anxiety that clawed its way through his veins, finding a home within each vibrating fiber of his beating heart. 

Would this be it? 

Should he count its beats in case they’re all it has left to give? 

“Just a simple prick of the finger should do. All it needs is a single drop to focus the magic on you specifically. Then, once you drink the solution, it will send your consciousness back to the void in which you first encountered Todratuhele. It is there that you will face him.” 

Despite it all and despite how much worse was yet to come—call it ironic, call it silly—Varian’s stomach still turned nauseatingly in his gut at the mere thought of drawing even just a drop of his blood. 

_At least some things never change._

With great precision, Rapunzel quickly stuck Varian’s index finger with a pin as he squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply through his nose. He did not look until the princess ensured the splash of crimson was in the vial. 

It was—it was _mesmerizing_. 

What had once been a stormy, frosted grey was now swirling with an unseen force, quickly mixing with his blood to turn the liquid into a maroon so deep it was almost black. 

Though its resemblance to blood did prompt a subtle spasming of Varian’s throat as he fought back a gag.

“You remember the plan, right kid?” Eugene sat at his side, the young alchemist having been moved to a cot Xavier had rolled in from the back room. The captain’s expression was rigid, his lips pulled back into a smiling guise of cool collectedness, though his eyes spoke immensely of the fear that coiled around his spine. 

“Get in, get the scythe, stab a demon and get out. Easy.” 

Varian had only just muttered his last word when a body of gold and purple slammed into him, delicate arms snaking around his back to pull him into a tight hug. Rapunzel could not quell the hitch in her breaths as silent tears dripped down her cheeks. 

“Please—please promise me you’ll be careful, Varian. Promise me you’ll come back to us.” 

It was, perhaps, a testament to their exhaustion and strung-out nerves that neither parties flinched at her choice of words. 

_Promise_. 

Yet—perhaps it was a testament to their growth instead, for Varian’s own lanky form wrapped itself around her in return and he whispered in her ear, “I promise.” 

He only pleaded he would not break it. 

Broken promises were the foundation of their story. But they did not have to be the end. 

Sitting here, in a small shop in the kingdom he called home—surrounded by the people he called family—it was enough to make his heart swell with an emotion he had once believed to be so buried within that it could never resurface. 

Yet he felt it. He felt it more strongly than he had ever felt anything before. 

It surged through his veins with a vivacity that gave his body _life_. It colored his blood and his resounding heart a vibrant red. 

_Love_. 

Oh—how he so loved these people. How he so loved his home. How he so loved his newfound hope and light after the darkness that had swept through his body until it bled out from every pore and left him rejuvenated and revived with this new breath and desire for life. 

Now it was time for this darkness to bleed out, too. 

A gentle hand grasped at his, pulling Varian from his thoughts. He followed the hold back to Eugene—his friend, his _brother_. 

“So, uh—try not to get yourself killed, kid. Alright?” 

A bubbling laugh slipped from his lips. It was mirthful, if not a bit hysterical. “I’ll see you soon, Eugene.”

From his other side, his father shifted, leaning forward just enough to draw Varian’s attention to him. His father—the man he would do anything for—the man he had lost everything for—but also the man that had still declared his unbound love and pride for him. The man that had stood by his side as he fought to get everything back. 

Quirin stared into his son’s crystal blue eyes, both sharing tearful gazes as a million silent words echoed between them and sunk into their hearts.

“Are you ready?” 

One last sigh. 

One last passing glance over the people before him. 

One last grazing stroke through Ruddiger’s fur. 

One last moment to memorize these faces—these eyes and these smiles. 

One last breath. 

One last heartbeat. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> casually borrowing Varian's mom's name from the v7k au :)  
> \---
> 
> Now let's dish on Death!
> 
> Death's real name, Todratuhele (which I've been pronouncing Tod-rha-chu-hel-ay) is actually an anagram I made from the letters in "Lure to Death" because that is his entire goal and premise of existence. He, quite literally, lures his victims to their deaths through cruel lies and breaking their spirits. (good thing our boy has learned to resist!)
> 
> I've based him off of the real German folklore of the human Faust and the demon Mephistopheles. Different articles explain him in different ways, but the main idea is that he tricks people into giving up their souls, etc etc. It's super cool and super interesting so here's the link of the article I focused on! 
> 
> https://www.ranker.com/list/mephistopheles-facts/jacob-shelton
> 
> Stay tuned!


	14. Are we destined to burn or will we last the night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. 
> 
> At last we are here at the moment we have all been waiting for. This is probably my favorite chapter of the entire story, just with the message finally being conveyed and the emotions that were explored. This one means a lot to me. 
> 
> And apparently every time I celebrate a “longest chapter” I just have to go and top it with the next. But long chapters make up for long absences...right? (10K words my dudes!!!)
> 
> Please please please give this chapter’s song a listen if you can. It’s very important to this chapter and to Varian’s growth as a whole.  
> >>> Sleeping at Last - Atlas: Eight  
>   
>    
> CONTENT WARNING: violence, character injury

_Now you won't see_  
_All that I have to lose_  
_And all I've lost in the fight_  
_to protect it._

_I can't let you in_  
_I swore never again_  
_I can't afford to let_  
_Myself be blindsided._

_______

A familiar emptiness greeted him when Varian next opened his eyes. His flesh bristled with the frigid waters that bit his limbs raw.

Darkness—it surrounded him, _caressed_ him.

He was back.

Back in the void. Back in the blackness of contemptible rot and decay. Back in the same place where he had shattered like glass into a thousand crystal pieces.

Where he had shattered with no hope of being made whole once again.

Yet here he was—back in the void and blackness and self-shattering hell— _ready to fight_. Ready to face the devil and put him in his place—to free his mind of the poison and the deadly corruption that had once flushed out every last drop of hope and burning embers in his veins until only the smoldering coals of a dying fire had remained.

But, now, the match had been relit; the fire was roaring once again—stronger, this time.

His profound desire for sustenance of life had been rekindled.

His heart—his lungs—his addled mind and weary bones. They could carry him still. This body of his would not fall yet.

So he walked. He walked and he waded through the vast expanse of the shallow ocean below his feet. He would walk for miles if he had to until he found the source of his torment.

Though it was more likely Death would find him.

It was almost oppressive—walking these same steps he had walked a hundred times before. Flashes of amber glowed in his periphery, though faded out of sight each time he tried to look. The echoes of screams—reminiscent of a forgotten agony—resonated in his ears.

_Rapunzel—Eugene—Lance—his father—_

But that had only ever been another trick. Their pain, their cruel words...it had never been real.

Not that a realized truth could be strong enough to ward off the devil’s illusions.

So he continued walking. He continued every staggering step that would lead him deeper into Hell with only the smallest chance that he would ever walk back out.

He had to find him.

He had to end this.

_______

_I'll shake the ground with all my might_  
_I will pull my whole heart_  
_Up to the surface_

_______

Though he heard no sounds nor saw no sights, he could feel the moment the atmosphere shifted. The black waters at his feet churned with a hunger for flesh, for blood—for crumbling bones to be reduced to ash the moment they sink beneath its surface.

“All this time, you fought me and denied my words and yet—” _his_ thin voice was layered in honey, so sickeningly sweet as it rang in Varian’s ears “—in the end, you’ve found your way back to me.”

The sharp tips of Death’s claws pricked his skin, dancing along his spine and digging into his scalp.

“Just like I knew you would.”

“You’re right—I _am_ back.” Varian stood still, chest rising with a strange mixture of anxiety and pure determination to make this _end_. “But it’s not to join you.”

In a moment of, perhaps, foolish bravery, the boy swung his fist around with full intent to smash the already cracking bones beneath the cloak’s hood. It was for naught, however, as bone-white fingers wrapped themselves easily around his hand. Varian’s eyes widened in dismayed fear while Death’s own empty sockets of malicious shadows narrowed.

The skeletal hand held fast with an unbreakable grip, squeezing just enough that his joints gave an obscene groan in protest, threatening to snap should the treatment continue.

“No...I suppose it’s not. You’re here because you think you can _defeat_ me.” His voice was a soft hum despite the venomous jeer he spoke—a bed of thorns beneath roses. “You think you can face the devil and tell him _no_. But, my child, did you really think it was going to be that easy?”

The claw gripping his arm thrust outward with enough force to make Varian stumble while his other hand rose at the speed of sound to slam brutally into his chest and send him to the ground with an almighty crash in the rippling waves around him.

He hardly had the chance to lift his head out of the water before Death was upon him, the claws seizing him by the back of his neck—a silent threat. His foul breath drifted alongside his left ear.

“My sweet, _broken_ child.”

The grasp on Varian’s neck tightened tremendously until he could feel small rivulets of blood snaking their way down his skin and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

The ground disappeared from beneath him as the cloaked figure pulled him up, the hold on his neck not relenting.

Varian’s mouth opened in a soundless yell, eyes clenching shut at the pain radiating from each individual puncture running bone deep in his flesh.

“Did you really think you were _fixed_?”

Tremulous hands grappled at the loose material hanging from Death’s arms, struggling tirelessly to free himself from his clutches

“I had you— _I had you._ ” He spoke in an undiluted sneer, each word oozing the utter contempt this creature felt for the boy before him. “You were mine and they stole you away. I had you clinging to my every spoken word. _You believed me._ You were nothing—worthless—a monster!

“You were as good as dead until _she_ found you.”

“Who…? Ra-Rapunzel?”

All at once, the hand holding him up released its grip, dropping Varian like a stone back into the frigid, turbulent waters below. Groaning with the aches that called from each creaking bone and harrowing organ, he rolled onto his back to stare up into the hood of darkness towering over him.

“She had stolen you from me once already. But I was patient—I bid my time with others, all the while waiting in the shadows for the day I would find you again.

“Now you’re here—again. And I won't wait _any longer_.”

A flashing glint that shimmered briefly in the dark was the only warning Varian had before the lethal blade of the scythe cut through the air in a rapid downward arc towards his chest. He just barely rolled to the side as steel metal resounded with a crescendoing strike into the ground.

Panting with exertion and pounding adrenaline, Varian clambered to his feet, wary of the blade that carried his death only an arm’s length away.

“I hate to break it to you...but we can’t always...have what we want. And...whining about it just makes you sound like a petulant child.”

Sure—Varian might be facing the figure of his worst nightmares, quite literally staring death in the face, but he would not cower before him.

Not anymore.

For too long, he had allowed this creature to taunt him—torture him. For too long, he had allowed his words to burrow beneath his skin and build a home in his chest where they had festered. Where they had blackened his mind with thoughts he could no longer distinguish as his own or another’s. Where they had corrupted his blood with a poison that coursed through his veins.

A poison that had tainted every bleeding beat of his heart and his worldview. Colors had dampened into darkness at a rate so minuscule he hadn't noticed until he was blinded.

But, now, he could see again.

He could see every truth and every lie that had spilled from this wretched creature’s lips. He could see the hunger in his eyes—the curl of his lips that spoke of a lust for Varian’s own flesh and blood.

Death had been the lion and he the lamb.

But Varian would be his prey no longer.

Instead of vindictive anger like he had expected, Death only scoffed a cruel, humorless laugh as the two stared each other down.

“Your bravery is something to behold, dear child. It would be admirable if it weren't so absurd. After all, what are _you_ compared to a demon? What are _you_ compared to an immortal figure of death?

“What are _you_ compared to _me_?”

A small twitch pulled at Varian’s lips. “Well...if you're asking...a lot friendlier for starters...after my whole ‘redemption arc’, that is. And far more hygienic—”

Death gave an infuriated growl as he swung the scythe at his head, giving Varian barely enough time to duck. The passing breeze ruffled his hair.

“ _You_ —you insolent _brat_!” Another swing of the blade. “I should have killed you the moment I finally had you within my grasp.” Another—closer this time. “You were _mine_. I had you—I will not let you evade me _any longer_!”

Varian gasped as relentless steel met his cheek, slicing into the flesh with ease. The laceration burned as though the blade had been burnished in a fire. Blazing magma coursed through his veins, turning what felt as though the entire left half of his face to ash.

He stumbled back, one hand rising to probe the wound. His fingers grazed a trickle of sticky, oozing blood that ran along the contours of his cheek and his jaw, heeding gravity’s beckoning call.

A third strike of the scythe sent him falling backwards, though he did not remain down for long, quickly scrambling to his hands and knees. He scrabbled for purchase against the smooth ground, hardly finding the strength to climb to his feet.

Oh, how the tables had turned so rapidly.

Echoes of splashing water reverberated around each crevice in the darkness as Varian darted in the opposite direction.

His breath grated in his throat, each jagged sliver of flesh and sinew shredding the precious oxygen into bleeding bits of something unsustainable. His heart—his pounding, overburdened heart beat in a frenzy, a mad rush of wild thumping for fear its time would run out.

The darkness that haunted his every step—his every waking and sleeping moment since an eruption of green had lit the kingdom’s skies—closed in, obscuring his vision as each muscle cried its mellifluous song of mourning.

He was running— _running—running—_

The space in front of him—what had been a stretch of indiscernible distance— _intangible_ —gave no warning before the air solidified into a wall of glass. Varian, so set in his dash, could not stop himself from crashing through it. An almighty echo filled the void as the crystal shattered into a thousand shards that lit the ground below his feet with reflections of shimmering waters and his own frightened blue eyes.

His knees burned as he fell upon the broken pieces, his fragile skin easily relenting to each jagged edge. His blood mingled in the water.

He crawled—he pulled himself along the floor, uncaring of the icy ocean that leeched every bit of body heat he had left, uncaring of the lacerations that colored his skin red. At each twist and turn, he was met by mirrored images of the darkness. In every fragment, he could see flashes of skeletal claws—of gleaming teeth—of glinting steel.

But he did not stop.

He could not stop.

Through the darkness and thick air, Death stalked him, wading slowly and steadily through the shallow sea of water and glass. Predator and Prey once more.

Varian could not see him, but the quiet clinking of shifting rubble warned him of the approaching threat.

But _there_ —a passing shimmer in one of the larger shards caught Varian’s eyes. Two narrowed sockets in a face of translucent skin stared back at him, and above the cloak’s hood…

The scythe was raised once more, its steel blade catching in the broken mirror. Skeletal hands clung tightly to the wooden staff. It held for a heartbeat, undiluted tension crackling in the air.

Then it swung.

The blade fell.

His heart stopped.

With a choked cry, Varian only just jerked to the side as the tip of the scythe lodged itself into the ground beside him—inches from his head.

And if the second near-miss did anything to dampen Death’s disposition, well Varian didn't stick around to find out.

He scrambled to his feet once more, blood thundering with adrenaline and the single thought to _run—escape—live!_

Even if for only a little longer.

The haunting melodies of Death’s voice followed his every step, ringing in his ears and in every fissure of his darkened surroundings. “You can't run forever! Sooner or later, my child, you’ll have to stop.

“After all, there’s nowhere for you to run _to_. There’s nowhere you can go that I won't find you.”

Against his body’s judgment, against every screaming protest, Varian stopped. He ceased his sprint—his dash for— _for what?_

For safety?

For an extra second that he might continue to breath—that his heart might continue its bleeding beat?

A second more. That’s all running would grant him because Death was _right_. Oh, how he _hated_ to admit that now. How the mere thought sent a fiery eruption of loathsome disgust boiling in his veins—but it was true.

This place—there was no end to it. There was no exit, nowhere to hide. He couldn't outrun Death. Not here. He had complete control over this vast landscape of nothingness—of grievous hell. He controls what Varian does or does not see. He controls every inch of space here.

If he so desired, he could box Varian in where he stood until there really was nowhere else to run.

But he wouldn't do that. Not yet.

Because, right now, he was enjoying the chase.

And, perhaps, it was that final thought, that sudden realization that wore the rope too thin. Perhaps it was the final crack in the steadily crumbling dam that had, once upon a time, held back the flood of anger and vile contempt for the creature behind him.

This fight—this—this chase…

All this time, Death had merely been biding his time—mocking him— _humiliating_ him.

This was just a _game_ to him.

To—to him, Varian didn't even stand a chance.

There was an inaudible sound of snapping elastic, of rupturing concrete as that dam finally caved in Varian’s weary mind and heart. His spine croaked quietly as he straightened his back, pulling back his shoulders and lifting his chin high, and turned to fully face the figure before him. Their gazes met. The corners of Varian’s mouth pulled into a hard frown, while Death’s own thin lips twitched with a toying smirk.

This had never been anything more than a game to him.

But Varian would play no more.

“Come now...don't tell me you actually thought you ever stood a chance against _me_!” His voice was cruel—a malignant smile defacing the otherwise mild words. “Oh— _oh_ , you did, didn’t you? My poor, naive, _foolish_ child.”

Death approached him slowly, almost cautiously, as though hoping not to frighten him into another vain attempt at fleeing. One arm raised to expose its clawed hand to the air before the skeletal fingertips brushed against his fringe.

A violent flinch seized the boy’s slight frame as he pulled back beyond his reach.

“You really thought you could win.” What had been a high, almost manic tone became rapidly drenched in the treacherous rains of a deceitful front. “But you see, now, don’t you? You see that you cannot possibly defeat me. You will lose. So why not give in already?

“Why exhaust yourself with this futile fight when you could accept my gracious offer of mercy? Why not take my hand, and come _home_?”

And if nothing else, those hanging words initiated the final, fiery explosion within Varian’s gut and chest.

After everything—the torment, the lies—he really had the _audacity_ to strike him down and call it mercy? He had the audacity to call this place his _home_?

Varian’s own voice was low, a dangerous edge to it that could sever bone. “This—this is _not_ my home. I have a home. I have friends—a family! And they care for me more than you could ever understand.

“You tried to tell me I wasn't wanted but you were _wrong_. Nothing you say can ever make me choose to leave them. This fight is _over_.”

But before he could make any move to grab the scythe and complete the task he came here for, Death took a few shuffling steps back, falling into the shadows with a lasting grin.

Varian held his breath, chest tightening with the anxiety that coiled itself around his heart and lungs. He spun around, eyes straining to see into the darkness that surrounded him—to see any trace, any small sign of where the vile figure had disappeared to. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

It was _her_ voice that next found its way through the thick, stale air, ringing deftly in his ears. “Oh—you won't stay? Not even for your dear mother?”

Smooth fingers traced the skin of his neck, worming their way upwards and into his hair. It was the touch of a mother—a touch he had spent his entire life craving since he had lost it. It was a feeling that would have been comforting, had he not understood exactly who was truly touching him.

Now, it only made him sick.

“Look at me.” Her voice was sharp, demanding. It was _him_ , disguised as his deepest longing, though he was hardly trying to mask it anymore. _“Look at me.”_

“You’re—she’s not real.” It was a mutter—a reminder spoken only to himself, though loud enough in the silence that Death surely heard it.

The shards of the broken mirror crunched beneath her—his—feet as she— _he_ —moved to stand at Varian’s front. The fingers found their way to his chin, then up the side of his cheek, gently stroking the skin in a way that pulled from the depths of his subconscious some forgotten memory.

His mother—his real mother—used to touch him like that. When he had been only a babe, young and fearful of the world, she used to stroke him softly while humming the tunes of some sweet melody.

This—this _creature_ had no right to stand in her place.

He slapped the hand away, eyes still clenched shut and adamant to not look at the face he knew to be before him. He couldn't look—he feared that if he did, he would somehow be sucked into Death’s game once more.

He feared that, although he knew she was not real, if he saw her, he would choose to stay.

_“Look at me.”_ But it no longer sounded so much like her voice. It—it was still her mellifluous tones, but they seemed to echo with the voices of a thousand demons beneath. It was a deep growl, a grating rumble that promised pain to whoever should refuse its beckoning call.

“No.”

“Look at me. _LOOK AT ME!”_

But Varian would not relent—would not give in to demands that would only be his downfall.

The hands were at his throat, turned to claws that dug into the flesh as an unspoken threat. Hot, rancid breath mingled in the air, burning his nose and making his stomach churn. He couldn't breathe— _he couldn't think—_

The claws were ripped from his throat as suddenly as they were there. The water around him rippled and raged, echoing the sounds of a struggle, but, still, Varian refused to look. _Her_ voice rang again—yelling, crying out in terror.

She was crying out for _him_.

“Varian! Please—please—!”

It—it was almost too much. Her voice—she was calling for him—begging for him! She was in pain. Was—was Death hurting her? He—he—

_“Varian!”_

But she’s not real…

He knew this—he— _she’s not real._

Her cries continued, mutilated yells of agony and fear penetrating the darkness and surrounding his heart in a chilling embrace. The waters at his feet roiled and seethed in response to the sound of his mother screaming out her suffering.

Varian’s eyes clenched shut as he grit his teeth against the heaves wracking his stomach and throat, hands rising to cover his ears—to block out the sounds of this torture.

_It’s not real—she’s not real—she’s not real—_

All at once, the screams are severed, cutting off with a choking cough. Silence followed in its wake, ringing almost louder than the deafening noise.

“Varian?”

Another voice—not _hers_ , but one he knew all too well. It chimed in the void, muffled though it was, as though she were speaking from underwater. It reverberated off all corners of his skull, sounding both right behind his ear and a million miles away.

“Rapunzel?”

His eyes—as desperate as he had been to keep them closed—flew open as she called his name. His body spun rapidly, neck craning and cracking as he desperately peered into the shadows, hoping with every ounce of his being to spot her—to find even the smallest flicker of long, golden hair. Oh, how he craved even the smallest comfort of her presence.

But—was—how was she here? She couldn't be _real_.

Could she?

After all, she had come to him before, in a way. Her voice—she had found him here when he had been so lost. When he had been at the crossroads, wondering how much he had left to give. She had found him, and she had saved him.

Had she found him again?

Had—had the moon sent her?

_“Varian!”_

She spoke from the darkness, always sounding two steps behind him no matter which way he turned. _Where was she?_ Had she come to take him back? Was he out of time? Had the potion failed?

Had he failed?

_“Varian!”_

Wide blue eyes locked with scintillating green as he finally found her figure in the shadows. She was a sight to behold.

Rapunzel’s dress was in tatters, torn at the hem and along her sleeves—unruly evidence of a battle fought and lost to vicious claws. Blood bespeckled the soft purple, patterning it with wretched dots the color of spilled wine.

“P-princess? What—what happened?”

“Varian!” Her voice trembled under the strain of ruptured vocal cords. Had she been screaming? “Please, you—you have to make him stop!”

“Make who stop? Rapunzel, you—you’re not making any sense! Who—what—?”

But as she opened her mouth to speak again, she cut off with a gurgling choke. Her hands rose to her throat, delicate fingers curling around some unseen object that appeared to have severed her air supply.

But there was nothing there.

Varian’s feet unbiddenly carried him closer, his own arms extended with the hope to somehow reach her faster, to close the distance even a hair's breadth sooner.

But no matter how fast or far he seemed to run, the space between them grew no shorter.

_If he could just—a little closer—_

“I can make this all stop if you stay.” Perhaps ten yards from where Rapunzel stood, still at the mercy of her invisible captor, lips turning a startling blue, he heard _his_ voice.

Death’s voice. The one who had been behind every implanted vision. The one who had been behind every lie and every harrowing trick of the light or flicker in the shadows.

Of course it was _him_.

“If you stay, I can make all her pain go away.”

Varian’s breaths were ragged, gasping heaves as though he were the one being strangled and not Rapunzel.

“I—she’s not—”

Was she real? Or was she merely another of his games?

Nothing here had ever been true.

And yet...the painting in Rapunzel’s room. That had been real. Her voice—the guiding melodies of a woeful song and pleading whispers—that had been real, too.

How he longed to scream his vexations to the stars. How he longed _for once_ to not have any doubt in his mind of what he saw before him. When would it be that he could once again trust his own eyes—his own mind?

An undiluted growl ripped from his throat as he doubled over, fingers gripping his hair with the force to yank it from its roots.

_It was too much—it was all too much—_

“Please, Varian,” she spoke softly, that time, a mere whisper that nearly was lost to the raging storm ravaging his own body. “Make it stop. Please— _stay_.”

And that—those last words, her one request—was enough to vanquish all doubts that had eroded his mind and his surety. After every withering thought and insecurity in his worth—his place amongst the kingdom and the people he called _home_ —he knew for certain Rapunzel would never ask him to subject himself to torment for her.

She would never ask anyone to take her place in the throes of death.

This—this was not her. This figure that wore her face and spoke with her voice—it was not her.

It had never been her. Not this time.

“Stay, my child, and I’ll make _all_ their pain go away.”

He spoke from behind him, a breathy whisper dripping with some sickeningly sweet layer of honey. And though Varian did not turn to look at the cloaked figure, he could still hear the satisfied smirk that stretched his gruesome lips.

He was smirking—because he was so arrogantly sure he had won.

Skeletal hands tenderly caressed the back of his neck as he felt Death’s oppressive weight lean in close, just close enough so that his next words would sound directly beside his ear. “Look at me.”

Body trembling as the last dredges of adrenaline faded out, Varian raised his gaze to look at the figure that falsely called itself Rapunzel. She stared back at him, eyebrows still pinched in what he assumed was meant to be a look of pain—a look that was meant to draw his sympathy—to convince him to surrender.

But he as long as he still held a single fighting breath, he would not succumb anymore.

With an uproarious yell, Varian launched forward, sending his body careening into the princess’s form, though they did not collide.

She vaporized into a cloud of black smoke as soon as he reached her, and, with no solid object to stop his momentum, he crashed to the floor hard—each bone yelping at the abrupt cessation of his descent. The frigid, black waters lapped at his limbs, soaking into his clothes and sucking every last ounce of warmth from his skin. Wracking shivers traversed his frame as his lungs struggled to inflate against the sudden tightness in his chest.

For a moment, he lay there on the ground, eyelids fluttering shut against their will. He was exhausted—all energy sapped from his bones and muscles and veins.

This fight—it took a lot more than he apparently had to give. He thought he could beat him, but now he was out of moves. Out of time.

Out of strength.

Behind him, Death approached. He wore an unreadable expression—one that was simultaneously victorious and, yet, hesitant. He couldn't have felt sorry for the boy. Not after all this. No—he likely only wished for a better fight. A more worthy opponent.

_Well_ , Varian supposed, _he would have to live with the disappointment._

Bone-white claws tightened their grip.

A single crystal tear traced its watery path down Varian’s porcelain cheek. He wished he had said a better goodbye. If only he had thanked Ruddiger for always sticking by his side. If only he had told Lance not to blame himself, in the end. If only he had better repaid Eugene and Rapunzel for the second chance they had granted him.

He turned his head downward, breath catching in his throat.

Unforgiving steel raised once more, the sentence of death dripping from its blade.

He wished his dad was there. He only longed to hug him once more.

A heartbeat sounded, thumping in his chest. As he awaited the final blow that would deliver his fate, his blue eyes stared into his reflection below, rippling in the water. But—a flicker— _there._

Glowing from beneath the ocean’s surface, two fluorescent blue eyes pierced the dark. They were staring right at him.

The black waters gnawed their gnashing teeth.

The shadows wrapped him in their arms—a suffocating embrace.

The scythe swung and—

Beneath him, the ground fell away, plunging him into the frigid depths of the sea. Inky liquid flooded his mouth—flooded his throat.

_He couldn't breathe—_

Farther and farther he sunk, descending at a rapid pace as the world above grew out of reach. Through the waters, muffled by the barrier and the distance, the sound of a feral, snarling scream echoed around him. But he could hardly see Death’s silhouette, blackness crowding his vision as he fell slowly into unconsciousness.

Above him now—just below the surface of the churning waves—the eyes followed him, watching him.

_______

_For the innocent_  
_For the vulnerable_  
_I'll show up_  
_on the front lines with a purpose_  
_______

He did not startle into consciousness as he thought he would have. There was no earth-shattering jump. There was no bolting upright with a strangulated gasp of ashy air.

No, there was none of that.

Rather, awareness eased its way into his body through every pore at a gentle pace, slowly guiding his mind from the inky blackness like driftwood on a calm sea. His nose twitched slightly at the scent of burning coal in the forge. A subtle thrumming echoed quietly in his ears, sounding as steady beats of a drum on the other side of a watery barricade.

It was raining, still—harder now. Sheets of water poured from the heavens in a cry for mercy. A warning.

The storm was not yet over.

Varian’s eyelids fluttered open, gradually peeling back to observe the shadowed ceiling above, darkened by the grey clouds rolling across the kingdom’s skies. His vision was suddenly obscured by fur as the weight of a raccoon settled itself onto his tight chest.

“Ru-Ruddiger? What’s—?”

“Varian!” A breathy gasp from Rapunzel interrupted his thoughts as she pulled him into a deep embrace, bright golden hair falling over his shoulders. “You—you’re okay, _you won!”_

Before he could process her words, the young alchemist was further surrounded by bodies ceaseless in their motions, closing in on him with congratulatory slaps on the back and resonating voices of relief and pride.

They—but, no— _they didn't understand—_

_This wasn't over._

“N-no, I—I didn't beat him.” No matter how softly he spoke those words, they were enough to grab the others’ attention, immediately snuffing out all joy and elation—the flame of a candle not even having the chance to flicker before its light was lost to the darkness of night.

Trailing heat on his cheek drew the boy’s focus momentarily. Lifting a single, quivering finger, he traced its path, pulling back just enough to see bright crimson coating the digit.

Flashing bouts of a memory plagued his mind briefly. _Swinging steel—stinging pain—_

The scythe… Death had cut his cheek with it. The—the cut—it was still here. It was _real_.

Varian continued to stare at the haunting path of dripping blood, speaking as though in a haze. “He—he was going to kill me. I—the moon, she—I think she saved me. _Again_. I think she sent me back...before…”

He felt it without a warning—with no doubt nor hesitation. There was a shift in the air, a sudden buzz of electricity rippling across their skin and down their spines until every bone shivered with the current.

An unseen hand slipped down his throat, worming its way into his lungs and grinding them to dust. His breath caught, torn to shreds without trial or defense.

_This was far from over._

From every crack and crevice, from every shadowed corner that stood silently in the room, small bits of dust and dirt and darkness pulled themselves up from the ground, circling the room in a rapid tornado of rushing wind and particles.

Piece by piece, each fragment found another—joining hands in a united embrace to build one single monumental image before their eyes.

It started from the bottom, slowly piecing together the wispy form of a cloak that billowed in the breeze of the sudden windstorm of shadows. Higher and higher the darkness spread, like an infection coursing through one’s veins as it steadily set course for the heart.

And when it would eventually strike the beating muscle—

As the last piece of darkness found its fit and the air stopped churning, so, too, stopped the beating of their hearts.

So, too, stopped the raging river of blood that flowed through every vein.

Every cell, every tissue and fiber and organ ceased to hum its melodious song of life, for there, before them all, stood the shadowed figure of Todratuhele, himself.

Death—the demon of nightmares—the one who had tormented Varian’s mind and spirit for these past weeks.

He had always been real, but now they could _see_ him.

From beneath the hood, two voids of equal darkness stared back at them, piercing straight through their flesh and into their bones to send wracking chills up their spine.

Outside, the storm raged on.

All breaths held their place in lungs that failed to rise.

“Well, my child,” his voice oozed with honey that did nothing to mask the malignancy of his words, “here at last we stand—one against the other. You did want a fight, did you not?”

Quirin, still reeling from the shock, moved to step in front of Varian—who still sat in confounded shock on the cot—but paused as a vicious snarl of a laugh grated against Death’s lips.

“You would hide from me, _now_? After everything, you will not face me like the fool you’ve proved to be? Well…” the cloaked figure hunched forward ever so slightly, one skeletal hand reaching for the ground as he beckoned more orbs of darkness to move within his reach. Quicker now, they spun to transform into a long, wooden staff. As he shifted the object to stand tall beside his form, a glint of steel caught under the low light of the flickering lamps.

The scythe.

“You can hide from me, dear child. You can place the world between you and me, but it will not make a difference. I will not hesitate to strike down everyone you love until you have nowhere else to hide.”

As Eugene made to match Quirin’s stance in front of the boy, Varian halted him with a hand on his arm. The captain glanced down with widened eyes, but Varian was not looking at him. His gaze was fixated straight ahead, brows furrowed in a dark expression as he stared down his tormentor.

Gone was the boy who had wept and shivered before this vile creature.

Gone was the boy who had let himself be torn down piece by bleeding piece.

He would not cower—he would not snivel or beg for mercy. He would not submit.

Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, Varian rose to his full height and stepped past his gathered friends. His family. His protectors.

It was time, now, that he protected them.

“You call _me_ a fool, but if you think I’d let you hurt _anyone_ else, then you’re just as much a fool, yourself.”

A darkness fell upon the room, blacking out all traces of light from the outside world. The candle flames flickered once—twice—before disappearing into billowing streams of smoke that furled around their bodies and entwined in an endless path.

“You’ve been in my head for weeks—telling me that I don't deserve to live. Telling me that I’m better off dead, that no one cared for me. But look around you.” Varian threw his arms out in a wide gesture to the ones behind him. His eyes were narrowed, lips drawn in an angry snarl—not so different from the look he had worn only a short time ago.

But it was different this time. He was not fighting against the people he loved. He was fighting _for_ them.

He was fighting for himself.

“I have people who care about me. I am _wanted_. Your words mean nothing to me anymore.”

Death’s thin lips curled into a loathsome sneer, utter contempt radiating from his figure. “So brave—so _confident_. You think you can throw an insult at me and call it _Victory_?"

Step by step, the demon drew closer to the boy.

“You are a broken child. You can pick yourself up and tell me I’m wrong but it doesn't make you fixed. Walls built on crumbling dirt will only hold for so long before they, too, crumble. You are worthless. _Nothing_. A monster that will only ever hurt others in the end.”

His words were a dangerous snarl. They were words Varian might have believed even just a few days ago. But, though his brokenness may not yet be entirely healed, he had grown so much and discovered a newfound strength to fight against the forces that sought to beat him down.

“I am much more than that.”

Death coiled back slightly as the sheer vice and venom in Varian’s tone struck him. There was a fire in his eyes—a burning heat of fury and will that coalesced deep in the blue irises, forming a wave of resilience he had not previously seen in this boy.

Something had changed within this boy—this broken, bruised boy. This boy that, as Death took a second to truly behold his stature, was no longer as broken as he had believed.

“I was a villain, but I’ve grown. I was angry, confused, scared... _broken_...but I’ve become so much more than all of that. I’m the son of a knight of the Dark Kingdom—a brother, a _friend_.

“You are nothing but a liar and a _coward_ —saying all the right _lies_ so that I might choose to stay. Two years ago, I might’ve made a different choice. But I was a different person then. I’ve changed. I _have_. I’m better—stronger. I have something to fight for—to live for. You can’t trick me anymore.”

And Varian truly believed his own words this time. He felt their truth in every fiber of his body and in every crevice of his mind. For the first time since the explosion—for the first time since the blizzard, since the amber—Varian did not feel that heavy presence of doubt. He did not see the looming shadows of fear and grief and hatred.

He felt lighter.

Freer.

That omnipresent threat that at any moment the claws would be back to rake across his throat and shred his lungs and his heart to scraps—though Death still stood before him, the threat felt vanquished. This was it.

_It was over._

“Don't you get it? _You’ve lost_.”

A low cackle split the air, emanating from the shadow of a man before him and growing in intensity. The dark vacuums of his eyes narrowed in malice and derisive scorn.

“Have I?”

With a single step backwards, Death melted into the shadows, disappearing from view and leaving not a single trace behind.

A cold wind ravaged the little shop, dust and dirt and darkness flying every direction at a speed so calamitous, they had to shield their eyes from harm.

From the wall behind Varian, a figure rose—stepping forward as silent as the night and raising a blade of steel that would silence his prey at last.

With his back turned, the boy had no warning of his imminent doom, hunched forward as he was in an attempt to expel the debris from his lungs.

“Varian! Behind you!” The princess’s cry cleaved through the thick air, one tremulous finger pointing above his shoulder as pure terror etched itself on her face.

He spun as the Death swung the scythe another time, hands raising only just in time to catch the weapon’s wooden base. The blade stopped about an inch from his face.

It was a struggle—a battle of strength and of wills. One looking to end a life and the other looking to end a nightmare. Hands grappled with the staff, grappled with each other—a thrumming of relentless exertion while their bodies moved in a lethal dance.

No matter which way this ended, only one would be left standing tonight.

A clatter rang out as the scythe fell to the floor, beyond their grasp, but neither dove immediately to reclaim it. Despite his small stature and building exhaustion, Varian held Death back—adamant to see victory. The cloaked figure before him may have held greater strength and unmatched power, but Varian possessed the one thing that could still save him:

A hot, fiery desire for life that boiled in his gut and bled through his veins with every pounding beat of his steady heart.

Anger curdled in Death’s own gut, his lips peeling back in a malevolent snarl. One skeletal hand found purchase on Varian’s neck and jerked his lithe frame until the boy’s skull met the shop’s wall with a sickening crack.

Eugene and Quirin each began to lunge in Varian’s direction, but with a flick of Death’s bony wrist, bonds of indestructible darkness closed around everyone’s wrists and ankles. The two men, unable to halt their forward momentum, fell to their knees while their chained hands barely stopped them from kissing the ground.

The claws, sharpened to a deadly point, wrapped around Varian’s mouth, their tips digging in with the threat to pierce his tender flesh.

“So... _pitiful_. I can see now from where you get your foolish bravery.” The figure leaned in close to the boy’s ear, eyes never leaving the anguished faces of the ones kneeling before them both. “How it must torture you to know how you’ve failed them. How _ashamed_ they must all be.”

“No, Varian don’t—”

Another flick and their mouths were bound shut as well, leaving behind only their muffled yells incoherently attempting to dissuade Varian from listening to the lies.

“Maybe...once I finish killing you, I’ll kill them all, too.

“And it will be _all your fault_.”

Varian’s own voice mutely vibrated, unable to speak past the claw over his mouth.

A malignant smirk stretched Death’s lips as he pulled his hand back. “What is it? Do you have something to say, my child?”

Crystal blue eyes raised to meet the gazes of his friends—his family. His own lips twitched with a hesitant, wane smile. “You once asked me what I was...compared to you. Heh...well, there was _one_ thing I forgot to mention.”

Subtly, so as not to give away his movements, one gloved hand tucked itself into a pocket of his belt. Deft fingers wrapped themselves around a single chemical ball—the only one he happened to be carrying. It was a mixture of magnesium powder and potassium nitrate.

In the end, it may not do a lot of damage, but it was exactly what he needed right then.

“I...am...an alchemist!”

With all his might, Varian drove his head back into Death’s hooded face and a defeaning crunch split the air. As the blow knocked the demon off-balance, he then threw the ball to the ground, eyes clenched shut as it shattered to release a blinding flash of light.

Death stumbled back, the light burning away at every shred of darkness that had coagulated to build his form.

As his hands loosened their grip, Varian dove forward onto his knees to bring the scythe into his own grasp.

_This was it—this was his chance—_

A roar of unadulterated fury crackled in the atmosphere as Death, too, lunged forward. He leered down on top of the boy, resting nearly right on top of Varian’s unprotected back as he attempted to overpower him. His claws swung recklessly, aiming for any inch of skin he could with the single goal to mangle and maim and make this boy _bleed_.

_He would not lose—he would not be bested by this child—_

The claws were at his throat, the tips digging in to rip out every muscle and stretch of sinew.

_He was running out of time—there was no other way—_

Mustering every last ounce of strength his body had left to give, and with a final, silent apology to the ones he knew were watching, Varian drove the blade up through his own shoulder and into the body behind him.

The strike was precise. Not even off by an inch, the scythe pierced Death’s chest right where his blackened, ashen heart would be.

The world around them fell quiet, everything in existence stopping for just a moment.

Then, slowly, the pieces of darkness that held Death together began to dissipate back into dust and broken bits of shadows that set themselves free.

He spoke not a word, for his tongue had dissolved. The look of sheer hatred that had burned in the voids in his skull disappeared, giving way to a brief flash of surprise before it, too, was lost to floating debris. The claws, no longer deadly, fell away from Varian’s throat, allowing fresh breath to fill his lungs again.

From his grasp and his wounded shoulder, the scythe followed, disintegrating into ash that vanished from sight.

It—

It was _over_.

He had _won_.

The bonds that held his friends captive were gone and it took only a moment for them to clamber to their feet and race to Varian’s side, some mutated cry of his name on their lips.

Eugene was the first to reach him, hands already firm in their grasp on his arms as the captain guided him to his feet.

Rapunzel soon joined, already beginning to fuss over the blood that sluggishly dripped from his left shoulder. “Varian! Oh, what were you thinking...you could’ve been killed!”

Okay, so yeah...stabbing himself with a relatively large blade through the same shoulder conveniently located very close to his heart may not have been his most brilliant idea. But his options had been limited.

Though, he felt they knew that, too.

A second later, Quirin was at his side, already shedding himself of his vest so it could be used to stop the bleeding. The wound throbbed dully, but Varian hardly felt it.

Instead, he felt...at peace.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The storm that had rampaged the lands had now come to a close. Rays of delicate sunlight tiptoed hesitantly through the windows, cautious of the darkness this room had seen.

But it was over.

At last, it was over.

The song of the birds could be heard in the background.

A second passed. Then, she stepped in from the shadows, silently drifting across the floorboards, unseen by the people surrounding Varian. They were too engrossed in making sure he was okay.

Not that it really mattered. They wouldn’t have been able to see her anyway.

Not even _her_. Not even the celestial Sundrop.

But Varian saw her.

Their eyes met as she gracefully approached, ebony hair framing her chiseled face. Her eyes—they shimmered a soft blue now, but they were the same eyes. The eyes that had glowed a luminescent blue in the darkness.

It was the Moon.

She had saved him, and now she was _here_.

As she stood before him, her movements nothing more than a passing draft to the bodies around them, she sent him a soft smile—an upward curve of her pale lips that told him not to worry.

_Everything would be okay._

A single, slim hand reached up to tenderly stroke his temple. Her touch was so different from Death’s. Where he had meant harm and pain, she only offered warmth. The fingers moved to curl around the back of his neck and, with a sharp pinch, the nails pierced into his flesh.

His vision erupted with a blinding flash as he collapsed into his father’s arms with no opposition.

Their shouts of surprise and concern fell on deaf ears as Varian was lost to the darkness one last time.

_______

_And I'll give all I have_  
_I'll give my blood, I'll give my sweat_  
_An ocean of tears_  
_Will spill for what was broken_  
_______

His heart pounded as consciousness gently tugged at his mind, thrumming with anxiety and utter fear of what awaited him on the other side of his eyelids.

It should be over. He had watched Death disintegrate before his eyes.

He had _won_.

But Varian was still wary, not having had the best experiences in regaining consciousness these last few weeks.

But as he lay there, eyes still shut, his other senses began to draw the picture of his surroundings.

There was a chill—but it wasn’t cold. Not as it was _there_ , with _him_. It felt more like the air at the close of a hot summer day, just as the sun would begin to sink below the horizon, taking with it the last vestiges of heat, and the cool wind would begin to dance through the streets. It smelled like fresh rain—a slight drizzle either about to start or having just concluded—a crisp scent that was entirely pleasant. Beneath him, the ground was soft. He could hear the gentle swaying tides of a trickling stream. It did not carry the same vicious sounds of the frigid waters he had felt before.

He faintly thought he heard the sound of music—a lulling hum of it’s sweet, dulcet tones.

Steeling himself with a weighted breath, Varian allowed his eyes to slide open, slowly at first, and then, as he took in the change of his surroundings, more surely.

It was still dark, but it was not the same blackness that he had been so torturously oppressed in. The—sky?—held more of an evening blue color; the hue of dusk just before the night truly fell. He—well he quite liked the color. It was calmer, more companionable.

Far above him in what must have been the stratosphere of this strange place, he thought he could even discern the tiniest pricks of glistening stars.

They were watching him.

They were welcoming him.

Most importantly, he could no longer see a river of blood or gleaming teeth. The bodies of his friends were not strewn around him in the sea of angry, black waters. There were no shouts of his failures and faults, no declarations of his lack of worth.

For he meant something. To the world, to his kingdom, to his friends.

He was _wanted_.

The stars above flickered in agreement.

“Indeed you are,” a sudden voice from behind him weaved through the air—spinning in soft twists and turns until its chiming sound reached his ears. “Yet, I don't think you quite understand just how much you mean to the ones you love.”

She was the epitome of grace—each step taken was in great precision, moving her body in a fluid motion that she seemed to be almost walking on clouds or merely floating down a stream. She was dressed in white, which perfectly complemented her ivory skin, and the cloth billowed out behind her as though caught in a warm breeze. Her dark hair framed made her skin almost appear to glow.

Her eyes were a radiant blue, not so different from his own.

It was _her_. The Moon.

That he knew almost instantly, the information dragging itself forward from some crevice in his mind even though he had only just seen her in person for the first time.

His mouth gaped open, tongue moving to form words his mind hadn't yet deciphered.

“You are free, now. Go—go and prepare yourself for what’s to come.”

“I—wh-what’s to come?”

And if there was a slight quiver to his voice—a hint of exasperation—well, it was no fault of his. After everything he had been through, didn't he deserve a _break_? For days— _weeks_ —he had been tormented by a demon of death. He had been cut down to pieces and was only just now beginning to stitch those same bits back together. He had faced and fought the devil and _he_ was the one left standing.

What more could there possibly be to come?

Perhaps she had heard his waver. Perhaps she had read his mind. Offering a tender smile that lit her eyes with a spark of reassurance, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “There is a storm brewing in the kingdom’s shadows—an imminent battle between the forces of darkness and light.

“An eclipse is coming. This time next week, the moon will align with the sun and block out her light. And the powers of the heavens will be at their most vulnerable. This is when Zhan Tiri will strike.

“But this is also when she can be defeated.”

The words were a blur in his mind, passing from her lips and through his addled brain with very little adhesion. This—but what did—

“What does this have to do with me?”

She did not answer at first, choosing instead to step back, away from him. Her bright eyes bore into his own, staring through his body and into each vibrating cell bursting with life. She took another step back—then another—another, all the while making no move to answer his question until, at last, she stood several meters away.

The wind had picked up, still a warm embrace that swept between them. The darkness of midnight closed in around her until he could hardly discern any other part of her except for her eyes.

“ _You_ must be the one to stop her, my moondrop. Only you have the power to lay this war to rest and return to the heavens what is rightfully theirs.”

Varian’s brows drew into a tight furrow, his heart clenching in unease at her words. “I—but, _wait_ —”

“We will see each other again, soon, dear boy—Varian. For now, _go_. Go back to your friends and family. Your fight, for now, is over.”

And she was gone. Lost to the shadows of the night that settled around him.

He wanted to feel afraid. He wanted to allow his bleeding heart to pump every last wretched drop of terror and anger and pain through his veins.

_How was this fair?_

_What right did she have to decide this was his responsibility?_

Yet, he could not muster the strength to feel anything other than absolute relief and resignation. His battle was fought. It was over. She had confirmed that. Anything that was to come felt so distant to him now. In that mere moment, he felt he had all the time in the world to be afraid. So he would not feel it right then. He could worry about it later.

For now, he could only smile.

He could only exhale a tumultuous breath of every last feeling and thought that had plagued his tired body these last couple weeks.

And with that breath, he watched the darkness surrender. He watched it twirl and spin in an elegant dance towards the sky, every bounding leap carrying it farther and farther away.

He was free.

It was _over_.

A quiet, slightly hysterical chuckle escaped his lips.

What was it he had called himself? Shattered porcelain? _Broken pieces of something that had been destined to break from the start._ But what was there in the world that didn't break? What was there in the world that didn't get a little bruised or beaten or damaged along the way?

And just as he, himself, had broken, he would now break through the surface of the black waters he had been drowning in for so long to breathe his first breath of fresh air.

Oh—how he could _breathe_ again.

How he could _feel_ again!

Every skipping heartbeat and thrumming muscle. Every gust of the warm breeze and trickle of falling rain.

He could feel it all.

Perhaps he had been destined to break. But now was the time to piece himself back together into something new—something _whole_.

It’s been a while since he was whole.

He stood there, under the navy sky and beneath the watchful eyes of a thousand dazzling stars, and just simply breathed again.

Then he, too, was gone.

_______

_I'm shattered porcelain_  
_Glued back together again_  
_Invincible like I've never been_  
  


_(sleeping at last - atlas: eight)_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh—hey—did I mention I made some art for this?
> 
> But guys!! This is it!!  
> We’ve got one more chapter left of this grand journey. And it’s bittersweet to see it coming to a close. But I’m so excited for the end, for it means we can start on the sequels! 
> 
> (credit: chapter title from Dermot Kennedy’s _Lost_ )
> 
> Stay tuned!


	15. Hello, my old heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. It is 5 a.m. here. I absolutely stayed up all night finishing this chapter because the words were, at last, flowing in a way they hadn't for two months. I'm so sorry I was gone for so long. It was completely unintentional, but between hectic work schedules and insane writer's block, it was also unavoidable I guess. 
> 
> I really hope this one brings some satisfying close to the story. I hope its ending does it justice. 
> 
> Also... Big thanks to Glace and Levy for their help generating inspiration/ideas for this one! I was stuck in quite a block and you def pulled me out! Much love <3
> 
> (And yeah, the story summary is back to its original cause I’m an indecisive piece of shit :) 
> 
> [song: dotan - letting go]

_Wars, no I can't win them all.  
Oh, my darling, what are we fighting for?  
Stolen by a love that is forced  
Like an ocean, I was washed to the shore._

__________

It was a waiting game.

It was an endless stream of watching the sun trail across the sky, rising and falling like the push and pull of the tides—like their chests with every laborious inhale and exhale of the stagnant infirmary air.

Galen had said Varian only needed rest after they had carried his unconscious, still sluggishly bleeding body to the castle.

But that had been two days ago.

Two days of crippling anxiety that wracked their nerves. Two days of sitting by his bedside, eyes keenly watching the movement of his chest to be sure he still breathed. Two days of waiting—waiting— _waiting—_

Now, with evening beginning to shadow the kingdom in a soft, navy glow, a sense of déjà vu filled the air as two figures once more occupied the space on either side of the boy in the bed.

Quirin and Rapunzel were silent, each lost to the thoughts roaring inside their heads. They were alone, now that Lance had taken Angry and Catalina home. Eugene had been stuck in a meeting all day with the king, queen, and guards concerning the threat of Cassandra and Zhan Tiri.

She knew how it killed him so to be away from them—from Varian.

As the princess, she also knew that she should be in the meeting, too, but this would likely be her only chance to be alone with Quirin. After the adrenaline from the past few days had finally ebbed, she had been overcome with a burning curiosity. The questions rang through her mind too quickly to make any sense of them, but all centered around a singular fact.

Varian had been saved by the moonstone— _by the moon_.

Quirin—a man who had been in the brotherhood—a man who had sworn to keep that same magic away from the world—had used it to save his son. It was a story not so different from her own.

So what did that mean for her? _For him?_

Were they the same? Were they somehow connected to one another by these powers of celestial wonder? Perhaps they were. She had felt it—she thinks—from the moment they had first met. She hadn't been able to explain it, but something within her had always felt drawn to him in a way she hadn't felt before.

Or—in a way she had only ever really felt with the sun and moon.

It was an inexplicable pull—a sense of gravity that melded them into one.

The night her hair grew back, she had felt that gravitational force—had felt its weight oppressing her with every sustained second she stared at the black rocks. She had been compelled to touch them. So she had.

And in the end, they had led her to him. To Varian.

It had always been him, hadn't it? The secret of her hair—the rocks—her dreams—the scroll— _the moonstone—_

It had never actually been about her own destiny. It had been about— _him_. It had been about leading her to him. For had they never met, where would they be? The black rocks—would they have ravaged her kingdom before she could ever pry the truth from her father—before she could learn their message? The moonstone—would it still be locked away in a fallen kingdom? Would Cass still be by her side—still be her friend?

And Varian… Would he have ever come to know family in the way he now does? Would he have ever come to know this suffering?

But these questions—in the end, they didn't matter. They had met. They had loved and they had suffered. And all of it had brought them to this very moment in time. This moment: a princess with a kingdom to save, a boy who could have the power to save it, and a father with secrets to tell—all in a single room that donned a single question.

Would it be enough?

Would _they_ be enough to end this fight?

Well...with a cursory glance to the man across from her, with his head bowed once more and a pale hand clutched between his own, Rapunzel decided only he could provide the answer. But as she opened her mouth to speak, the words refused to be heard, sticking in her throat with the sudden dryness that overcame it.

How—how could she ask this of him? How did she find the words? This man— _a father_ —had just witnessed the torture his son had been subjected to. He had just learned of how deeply they had all failed the boy—just how far they had let Varian fall before their very eyes. He had just splayed his own heart before them in a retelling of perhaps his worst memory, and she was going to ask him _why?_

She held her breath momentarily against the war raging within her—a battle of dominance between her curiosity and her sense of simple respect.

She could walk away. She could feign some excuse—a meeting with foreign dignitaries, an answered call to her body’s cries for sleep—. She did not have to ask this of him. But when Quirin turned his attention expectantly to her, likely having felt the weight of her gaze on him, she knew she couldn’t hold back.

“Why did you choose to go to the moonstone? I—I mean, after the warning you had given my father…”

She trailed off quietly, her resolve faltering as the words left her tongue. It—what right did she have to question him? Was he angry—?

A sad smile tugged at Quirin’s lips as he glanced back down at his son. “I must sound like the world’s biggest hypocrite. And maybe I am.”

“No—I wasn’t—”

“It is true, though. Nearly 21 years ago, I warned King Frederic of the dangers of messing with magic. I had warned him of the consequences his actions would bring. And we saw firsthand that very devastation.

“And then, only a few years after, there I was, ignoring my own words in the hopes of finding any way to save my son. You’re not wrong, your highness. It was mighty hypocritical of me.”

Rapunzel wanted to say something—anything to negate his words. But there wasn’t much for her to say. And, being honest, she had been feeling a little hypocritical, herself, lately, dancing the way she was with difficult choices and a friend’s betrayal when, not so long ago, she had simply let that same music sweep past her without a single rhythmic step.

She was still holding out hope to bring Cass back from the edge, despite it all. Yet where had that resolve been when it was Varian in the darkness?

Where had _she_ been?

She had let him fall. She had let him hurt and fix his mistakes himself. She had offered no helping hand, choosing instead to turn her back—to vilify him when he may have never been the villain at all. At least, not at first.

She wonders about that night, from time to time. Who had really been the villain on the night a kingdom waged war against a cornered, grieving boy? Was it him—was it Varian, who had kidnapped her mother in a last-ditch effort to make his voice heard and save the only family he had left? Was it her father, who had lied to their people—who had ignored a threat of his own creation and sought to silence the only person willing to unveil the truth?

_I am the King and I have the situation under control!_

_I’ll be sure to do everything I can to get him help._

Her father—who had lied to _her_.

Was it her?

Was it her—a supposed friend? Her— _the sundrop_?

Was it really his fault at all? Was it not hers entirely? Her: the sundrop—a princess born from the saving grace of the sun and him: a boy saved from death by the moon. They were connected, surely. There had been a bond forged between them—each the opposite piece of the other, the sun and the moon. Should she have felt it? Is it her fault?

Should she have kept trying the way she was now with Cassandra? Could she have saved him?

She had been a hypocrite, and some part of her longed to say so to the man—the weary father—before her. To tell him he wasn’t alone.

Though before she could find the breath to speak, Quirin continued in his own deep rumble. “But the man who had warned the king had been only a knight—someone who had sworn allegiance to guarding the world from something he knew little about. He had been a man who listened to facts, not feelings.

“The man who had gone to the moon for help had been a husband, a father—someone who at last understood what it meant to go to the ends of the earth to save the ones you loved.”

He exhaled a weighted sigh—one that, at once, seemed to blow away thoughts that were meant to be buried and still woefully croon of the plague of memories still gnawing at his heart. But then, he was looking at her—or maybe looking through her and into something else—something far away from that room and that moment in time. “Dealing with magic is a bargain. There is always a price to pay. For your father, it was his kingdom. For me, it was my wife.”

The princess reached out in some desire to comfort him—to offer a gentle touch or quiet affirmation that she understood his pain, in a way. She knew all too well the price to be paid for magic.

For her, it had been her freedom.

She did not go to him, however, choosing to remain in her own seat across from Quirin. She longed to give in and save the difficult conversations for later...but _when?_ If she did not ask him now, if she did not have the courage _now_ , would she ever? No—this was her last chance. The battle was nearly upon them and there was still so much she needed to know.

“Quirin...is—is there anything you know about the moonstone or—or about Varian that might tell us anything about how to defeat Zhan Tiri? Anything you learned from the Dark Kingdom?”

He was silent, again, eyes still gazing mournfully upon his son’s face until, at last, his shoulders sagged with a deep exhalation. “I am sorry, your highness. I know not the answers you seek. The moonstone...it is an immensely powerful force acting under the orders of the moon, herself. It has always been something to keep hidden, but now that it has been released—into the hands of Zhan Tiri, no less—there is no telling what it will be capable of.”

“But—but _surely…_ Th—there must be something! Perhaps the moon? You said the moon had spoken to you, right? Well, maybe she said something about what to do!”

“No. She told me nothing—no words, no advice. Just some silly song. Princess, I—I do not wish to discuss this right now.”

“But there’s no time! Quirin, we—we have to do something! Zhan Tiri is coming for Corona. If there’s something we can do—if—if Varian is _somehow connected—_ ”

Standing abruptly to his full height, the large man towered over Rapunzel, who sat frozen in the chair. _“You will leave Varian out of this.”_

A thunderous beat passed before Quirin seemed to come to his senses once more, realization dawning on him of exactly who he was speaking to. Turning his back towards her to lean against the nearby wall, he muttered a slightly embarrassed apology, “I’m sorry, your highness. It was not my place to shout at you.”

“It’s okay, Quirin. Just—the battle is almost here, I’m sure of it and we still have no idea how to stop them. If Varian was saved by the moon—just like I was by the sun—then maybe he has some sort of power, like me! Maybe—maybe there’s something he can do to help!”

“Princess, with all due respect, I ask that you leave this be and leave my son out of it.”

“But—but there has to be something there, a—a connection or…” She took a single moment to catch her breath, staring into his back with eyes imploring he just _listen to her_. “We have to do _something_ , Quirin, you can't just ignore this—”

A large fist slammed against the wall of the infirmary room, loud enough Rapunzel was surprised it did not wake the slumbering boy before them. Quirin did not turn to face her, and the faint trembling in his shoulders made her almost glad of it, as he raised his voice. “I AM NOT IGNORING THIS. I am looking out for _my son, trying_ to do what’s best for him now after these last couple weeks.

“He’s been through _hell_ , your highness. He’s suffered more than I could ever imagine, and as his father, I hate to have to see him in such pain. As his father, I cannot ask him to put himself on the line again—like _this_. After everything, all I want is to give him time to _heal_. It should not be too much to ask for just a little time. It should not be too much to ask that we do not force another war upon him right after he finished fighting his own.

“I know we don't have a lot of time, Princess. By God, am I aware of that. And I am also more than aware of the fact that my son will likely be at the very center of all this, regardless of my personal feelings. But tell me, Princess. Tell me, how that is at all fair to _him_?”

Shaking fingers reached out to point in Varian’s direction, carrying with them Rapunzel’s own tearful eyes. As she watched him—her little brother—sleep peacefully in the bed— _ ~~an infirmary bed~~_ —she could not stop the suffocating sob that worked its way up her throat, though she stifled its sound. _He was right._

 _How?_ How could she ask this of the boy—of her little brother? How could she force upon him another battle when he had only just given all he had and more to this one? When he was still suffering the pains and distress that would likely stay with him for so much longer.

After taking a moment to observe the scene before him, Quirin slumped under the weight of a thousand burdens. He spoke again, softer this time. “Do not accuse me of ignoring the threat to our kingdom when it has been the only thing on my mind since the forge two days ago. Do not accuse me of ignoring a war that could be the very thing that takes my son away from me at last.

“I have not forgotten about it. I have not stopped thinking about it. But, in this moment, I only want a chance for Varian to recover before he has to do this all over again.”

A silence as heavy as their bleeding hearts settled around them. They did not look at one another, instead choosing to only watch the steady rise and fall of Varian’s chest. The only sounds to be heard were their own laborious breaths.

Then, without a second glance back, Rapunzel turned and left the room.

* * *

Eugene stood silently in the corridor, back pressed against the wall and eyes meticulously following the ornate pattern of the rug below his feet. The meeting had ended just short of half an hour ago, but, for some reason, he couldn't quite bring himself to walk back into the infirmary. What else waited for him other than a constant reminder of Varian’s own pains and struggles?

What else waited for him other than a reminder of his failure?

His failure to protect the kid—his little brother.

That moment in the forge, as Eugene stared down the figure that had been tormenting Varian for—how long had it been by this point? A couple weeks?—it had truly hit him just how terribly he had let the boy down. How had he let this— _this_ go on for so long?

The nightmares—the doubts—the fear—the damage—

He had watched Varian crumble before his very eyes and had done _nothing_ about it. He had let this creature—this vile creature—tear his little brother apart until hardly anything had remained. How had he not _noticed?_

And now—what right did he have to ever look the kid in the eyes again? What right did he have to call himself his _family?_

“You know, I can hear the high-pitched whine of your overthinking from over here.”

The voice was sudden, startling Eugene out of his thoughts. Stood just before the bend in the hall, with his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, was Lance, a disapproving expression decorating his features. And it was a relief, perhaps, to see his oldest friend in this moment of conflict, for he had no doubt the man would know just what wise-ass comment Eugene needed to hear to pull his head out of the gutter. But, at the same time, Eugene wasn't sure he wanted that.

Was it too much to just wish for a moment to wallow in this despair? To let himself speak the truth (for how could he be sure any reassurances were not just lies to make him feel better)? To let himself feel this wretched feeling because it was what he _deserved?_

A hand fell upon his shoulder, squeezing it tightly— _when had Lance gotten so close?_ —and turning his body enough so that he was once again looking towards the other.

“What’s going on Eugene?”

He sighed, already brushing the other man off “Lance, it’s nothing. I—,” but couldn't help but fall into silence at the gaze that held him in place.

Of course he couldn't hide this from Lance—his oldest friend. They had been together for so long that they knew each other perhaps better than they knew themselves. He could never hope to truly hide anything from him, and, in a way, Eugene was grateful for it. He was grateful to know he didn't have to bear the weight of his concerns and fears and guilt in silent solitude. He did not have to put on a facade of carefree indifference when it was just the two of them, for he knew Lance would understand. In ways that Rapunzel sometimes never quite could, Lance would always understand.

“I—I just…” Taking a step away, Eugene moved to stare out a nearby window—gazing with little focus over the kingdom and into the setting sun. “What if this is my fault, Lance? All this—everything that happened to Varian—I—I should have stopped it, I should have found some way to prevent him from having to go through this, I—”

His throat spasmed, foreign emotions choking him and tearing into him like a sword lodged in his chest. “We—he’s like family to me, Lance, and family is supposed to take _care_ of each other. Yet all this time, he suffered right under our noses and I—I didn't notice! All this time—and—and it just feels like it’s _my fault._ I don't deserve to see him—to call him a brother. I—I don't want to let him down again.”

The air was still for a moment following Eugene’s quiet confession. The words were out, though part of him longed to take them back—to rewind and pretend as though everything was fine. It was easier that way, simpler.

But he could not deny the weight that had been removed as he spoke.

Muffled footsteps echoed in the corridor as Lance took his place at Eugene’s side once more, choosing, too, to let his eyes wander over the tops of village shops and houses. They stood like that for a moment, allowing their thoughts to roam free in their minds until Lance cleared his throat.

“You know...the night of the explosion was the most scared I’ve been in a long time. Seeing Varian there—motionless...unresponsive...I was terrified for a moment that he was dead, right before my eyes! There one moment and gone the next. And it would’ve been my fault.

“I had been afraid to see him after that. Afraid to see the consequences of my carelessness—to see a little brother in so much pain. Afraid he would have taken one look at me and asked me to leave. You know this already because you talked to me. And what was it you had said…?”

“Lance…”

“Ah, ah, no interrupting the man during his pep talk. You said not to beat myself up over something in the past. You said I needed to accept it and be there for Varian because he needs _all of us._

“And that’s still true, Eugene. He needs you, just as much as he needs Quirin and Rapunzel and me. I know you’re scared to let him down. But one thing I’ve learned is that if you let this fear keep you from actually being there for him, then, in the end, you’re only going to let him down anyway.”

Placing his hands on the captain’s shoulders, Lance gently guided Eugene away from the window and towards the infirmary door. “So you’re going to march through that door and be there for him when he wakes up.

“And I know Varian wouldn't want it any other way.”

_______

_You call out like echoes in the storm  
They fade into the great unknown  
High hopes, it's like I'm too afraid to come down.  
_

_________

A dull throbbing beat its steady beat along the surfaces of his bones and stiff muscles as his mind slowly eased itself into awareness. Varian’s eyes blinked open only briefly before squeezing shut once again, the early morning light streaming through the window just a little too bright after the constant darkness.

He could not stop the grunt before it escaped his mouth, too overcome by the raging fire in his retinas, and so the sound was enough to alert the single, weary figure that sat in the room.

“Easy, m’boy. Easy.” Galen’s weathered hand rested on Varian’s forehead—a move to simultaneously check for fever and to provide a source of stabilization, of comfort. “You’ve had a trying few weeks, so just rest now.”

“I—wh-what happened? Where—?” His voice was hoarse, grating against a parched throat. Despite the physician’s words, the boy still struggled to sit upright, though with little success, as every ounce of energy seemed to have been sapped from his body.

Pulling his chair closer to the bed, Galen eased back into it, kind eyes never leaving Varian’s. “Do not fret, Varian, you are safe and in the infirmary. Tell me...what is the last thing you remember?”

“I—” Images flashed in his mind, a pyrotechnic display of blazing colors and deafening sounds—gleaming teeth, stifling darkness, swinging steel—

_Blonde hair—dark eyes—strong arms—shouts and cries that were not all his own—_

Varian shot up in bed, igniting a flame of burning agony in his shoulder and head, but he paid it no mind. Xavier’s shop—the forge—

_Death had been there!_

He had actually, physically been there and his friends had seen him. He had fought him! And—and the moon! She had come to him when it was all over with the message there was more to come.

“Death—he was there and—and he was trying to kill me and...my friends! Dad—Rapunzel, are—are they—?”

His heart pumped a resounding rhythm in his chest as he moved again to sit up, to jump from the bed, and perhaps flee the room and find his friends had he had the strength. Anything to reassure himself they were not dead—that _he_ had not killed them. But as his leaden limbs flailed beneath the covers, two firm hands placed themselves upon his shoulders to hold him in place.

“I assure you, m’boy, your friends are well and safe. In fact, the princess and your father had sat in this very room not too long ago, likely wondering the very same about you.”

“They—they’re okay?”

“Entirely.” Taking a deep breath and a moment to gaze into the blue orbs before him, Galen offered a gentle squeeze to Varian’s shoulder, capturing the youth’s attention undividedly so that his next words would not escape. “No one else was harmed. You were the only one to suffer from the hands of Todratuhele that night.”

And the shock Varian felt must have been visible on his face, for the physician gave a quiet chuckle as he moved back to sit in the chair once more.

“Yes, I am well aware of the legends of death and the creature who plagued you. After you had been brought in, Xavier explained what you had faced and I must say...in all my years, never had I imagined such tales of incredible magic and tragedy could be _real!_

“But I suppose _you_ are living proof that not all things that go bump in the night are of our imagination.”

A sigh of great exaltation escaped him with Galen’s confirmation. They were alive—they weren't dead, he hadn't killed them—they—they were _okay._ They all were.

And he—well, he supposed he was okay, too.

Varian’s fingers, delicate as they were, moved with scientific-like precision to gently trace the spot on his cheek where Death had drawn blood. They did not meet the skin though, stopping only just above its surface out of—fear, was it?—trepidation?—to feel this ugly reminder of his demons. Instead, he moved their tips to rub his left shoulder, over the place where bandages still covered the wound from when he had driven the scythe through his own flesh.

A harsh shudder wracked along his frame at the memory.

“Will they scar?”

The question was timid—spoken with so little conviction that Galen reasoned Varian likely may not have wanted an answer at all.

“Yes. As may the one on your leg and abdomen, although I am hopeful they will be very faint—nearly unnoticeable. But those...a wound from a weapon of such incomparable power is beyond even my own healing capabilities. The mark of death will stay with you through the years, but this will not change you. This will not change what you accomplished that night.”

_The mark of death will stay with you._

He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that—to have these marks, these permanent reminders in his skin of the suffering he’d endured. Did they put on display his fragility—his mortality? Were they a shout to the heavens that he was weak?

Or, perhaps, they showcased bravery—resilience.

They would leave in him a lasting darkness—a shadow of Death that would never truly fade. And maybe that thought made him shudder with unease.

Yet, somehow, it felt okay.

It was okay to wear this constant reminder of his battle with Death. It was okay because it was a reminder of his strength. He had fought this battle and came out on top. He had _won_. And to carry these marks was to also carry the knowledge he had gained: that he would never be alone; that he had friends— _family_ —who would always be at his side to pull him out of the darkness that may threaten to overwhelm him.

He was wanted. And he was loved.

From beside him, the physician’s clement voice sounded once more, “Your friends sure are lucky to have you.”

It was not a question and it was not spoken with room for debate. It was a sentiment spoken so solidly that Varian found himself nodding along, mechanically agreeing “Of course I am—” but then cut himself off sharply, eyes widening, as the other’s words truly sank in.

He had not said Varian was lucky to have them, but that they were lucky to have _him_.

_Why?_

As if reading his very thoughts, Galen’s eyes crinkled in a knowing smile. “These last couple weeks, Varian, I have witnessed in you a strength that is unlike any other. There is a fight in you that could end a thousand wars, would you so desire, and there is such incorruptible humanity in you that would see to mercy. You’ve suffered—more than, perhaps, even the strongest of soldiers. Yet, in spite of it all, you continued to fight—for the truth, for peace…

“And, most of all, you did not fight it for yourself, but for the very people you call family. And I have no doubt you would fight it all again for them.”

Varian’s gaze fell downcast at the elder’s words, allowing some foreign emotion to wash over him and settle the beating of his heart. These things Galen was saying about him—the way he spoke of him...it—it was almost as if—

“Do not sell yourself short, m’boy. There is so much in you to be proud of. And I am sure I speak for everyone when I say this, but I am proud of you, too.”

_Proud._

The one thing he had sought after since he was a young boy. The one thing he felt he needed to be _worth_ anything. The same thing that had driven him to unspeakable deeds—to a road of darkness he wished he had never traversed.

_Proud._

Galen was proud of him—a man who hardly knew him—a man who likely only knew him for treason and for disastrous experiments. Yet he was proud of him. And his father—his father was proud of him too. As was Rapunzel, and Eugene, and Lance…

Perhaps he had never needed to fight for their pride and love and acceptance the way he had once thought. Perhaps he had never had to prove he was worthy of it. Death had been wrong. These people—these people he loved so incredibly much and who loved him in return—they had never felt anything less for him.

The boy who rambled and made mistakes and kidnapped queens and helped save kingdoms...it was all the same to them. They loved him, flaws and all. The only person he had ever had to prove anything to was himself.

But he supposed he had done enough, now. He had nothing left to prove—nothing left to make himself more worthy of their affection and of a place in this world because he had always been worthy.

He had never had to prove it at all.

And, for the first time since waking up after the explosion, Varian couldn't wait to see his friends again.

_______

_Days, I've been locked in my thoughts.  
I keep swimming against waves of support.  
Darling, I don't know where you've gone  
But my shoulders, now they're steady and strong._

_______

Varian was surprised at the lack of stampeding bodies flooding the doorway after Galen made the announcement of his awakening. There were no pounding footsteps or barricading figures heaving themselves upon his small—and, admittedly, still aching—form.

Rather, albeit with obvious restraint, Rapunzel eased into the room at a gentle pace, softly padding over to the bed. She was followed by Eugene, Lance, the girls, and his father—all of whom sported matching expressions of anxious concern as Varian fell into their line of sight. There was a hushed silence—a tense weight—that settled over them as the group found their places in a semicircle around him.

No one spoke at first, too immersed in the fragile atmosphere that surrounded them and, perhaps, too afraid to be the first to make it shatter.

But Varian, never having been comfortable in tense conversations, was quick to break the ice. “Well...heh, I guess all it takes is one battle with an immortal death demon and suddenly the whole castle gets awkward.”

A single breath was shared between them before hearty laughs erupted among the group. Rapunzel was the first to lunge into Varian’s chest, her surprisingly strong arms locking him into a tight embrace that, should he give her the chance, could have the power to crack his ribs. Or just simply suffocate him, whichever came first.

Eugene was next in line, a quick retort already on the tip of his tongue, “What are you trying to do, kid? Set a record for the number of times impaled in a month?”

“Yeah, I gotta say, little man, I’ve seen far too much of your blood lately, so how about we put that bit to rest from now on, deal?”

Varian offered a small laugh in return, heart clenching in his chest with undiluted elation at hearing his friends’ voices again. “Believe me, I’ve seen enough of my own blood to last a lifetime. That’s one deal I’ll gladly agree to.”

And despite the subtle glint of masked sorrow lining Quirin’s eyes, even his own father allowed a minuscule chuckle to slip forth as father and son were reunited once more.

“So tell us, V,” jumping up to sit at his feet on the bed, Angry and Catalina pinned him with a questioning gaze, “is it over now?”

“I—”

But something within him made him stop before Varian could answer her question. This—this war, or whatever it was, was far from over. He knew that; the moon had told him so. But how could he tell them that, _now_? After everything, was it too much to ask for just a moment of peace for them all? And deep inside, some part of him decided _no_. It wasn't too much.

Of course this wasn't over, but what would it hurt to give them just a moment to live in unencumbered tranquility. An hour—a minute—it did not matter how long to him. He only wanted to give them this, however brief it may be.

“Yes, it’s over. It’s finally over.”

Varian offered the younger girls a smile, strained as it was, but it was enough to appease them. He wasn't entirely happy to lie to them—not at all ignorant to the fact that these lies were the same he had told while caught in the clutches of Death—but it would only be for a short time.

The moon’s warning—the eclipse— _the truth—_

He would tell them. Just not right now.

Following the girls’ lead, Rapunzel, too, found a seat to his side on the bed. A tender hand reached out to cup his chin briefly before moving to stroke through his hair as piercing green eyes with the warmth of the sun met his own “We were so worried about you, Varian. After—after you stabbed yourself with the scythe, you just—you collapsed and we couldn't wake you. We were so scared something had happened to you. You’ve been out for three days now.”

Later, Varian would blame the delay in his comprehension of her words on his utter exhaustion. Too long of a moment passed as the addled gears in his mind spun to make sense of what the princess was saying.

_Three…_

“Three days?!” Varian shot up in the bed, nearly slamming his own head into Rapunzel’s. His startled shout caught them off guard, none quite understanding the reason for his sudden panic, but he paid them no mind.

_Three days._

Three days ago, the moon had said it was up to him to defeat Zhan Tiri. Three days ago, the moon had said he had a week.

And now his time was cut short.

_Three days._

He didn't even know how he would fight her—the moon hadn't told him. She had only said they would see each other again soon, but he was running out of time.

What if she had lied? What if she didn't show up? He didn't think he could defeat the demon on his own, without any guidance. Did he dare mention it to Rapunzel? Would the princess know what to do?

_Would the sun?_

The questions burned beneath the surface of his skin, ringing harshly in his ears with a grating sound that drowned out the resumed conversation of his friends.

_Three days._

What would happen if he failed?

* * *

Miles from the kingdom’s center, deep in a forest of trees and towering black rocks, Cassandra paced beneath the watchful gaze of milky eyes she had come to despise.

_The moon._

How it seemed to mock her. Yet how it seemed to _entice_ her, too.

How it seemed to whisper in her ear with the promise of fulfillment—with the promise of the attainment of everything she had ever wanted. Her destiny. Her purpose. A reason for living she had not yet seemed to uncover.

But, when she listened— _really listened_ —it was not really the moon’s voice, was it? No...it sounded too familiar, too similar to the demon at her side.

_Destiny. Purpose._

Those had been the promises of Zhan Tiri. Zhan Tiri: who lived solely with the goal of destroying Corona at last—destroying—destroying...her _home_ (was it?), her friends (were they?).

Was this really what she wanted?

Her mind flashed with forbidden memories—shared laughs and tears and embraces; fights and apologies and smiles. She remembered her journey to the castle, poisoned with confidence in the wake of another betrayal from the one who had led her down this path. She had been so sure Zhan Tiri was wrong in that moment—in that dreaded moment she had found the broken mirror piece. Gothel had never truly loved her, so why was she still fighting? What was she really fighting for?

_Destiny? Purpose?_

_Belonging?_

She remembered Varian—or, more specifically, she remembered his blood. He had jumped in front of her blade to save Eugene. He had jumped in front of her blade to stop her from—from—was she really going to kill Eugene in that moment? Would she have stopped herself? Would she not have? Not that it really mattered—she had nearly killed the kid in his place.

Weren't these _her friends?_ Wasn't this _her home?_

Part of her longed to say yes. Part of her longed to say no.

All she had wanted was to take control of her life—to step out from the shadows that had long since veiled her from opportunity. But was it worth _this?_ This—if she continued down this path, what would be left for her when it was all said and done?

Was this what she really wanted?

Truthfully, she didn’t know.

* * *

She stood on the balcony, back pressed against the wall as a gentle breeze blowing in from the sea ruffled her long hair.

She could hear the faint sounds of conversation behind her in the bedroom, but she ignored it for a moment to relish in the sunlight that warmed her skin. Standing here, it was so peaceful—to simply let her sight graze upon the blades of her kingdom, to watch her people milling about in their everyday lives…it was refreshing, it was a brief escape from the life of royalty. This was where she would come for a chance to breathe, to be free from the stifling atmosphere of duties and hard decisions—from the discussions of treaties and wars and threats.

But it offered her no such escape today. Not if the harsh comments she caught now and then from her husband were anything to go by.

Frederic did not know she was there. He couldn’t, or else he wouldn't be having the hushed discussion he was now. His words were spoken lowly—stifled by the door that lay between them—, making it difficult to piece together the conversation.

“Send word…is over, we…make our move…six months’ time…”

“But sire…” That was Nigel, surely. She knew his voice almost as well as her husband’s. “What…the boy?…only grows stronger…”

Muffled footsteps sounded against the floor as the king stepped closer. Arianna pressed herself further into the stone wall of the castle as if she could somehow make herself disappear. If Frederic stepped outside now and caught her listening...would he be angry?

She was the queen. By all means, this was a conversation she should be a part of as well. But he had insisted she stay out of whatever this business was.

_It was not important._

_It did not concern her._

She feared for who it did concern.

Closer he stepped—closer— _closer._ His words came into focus, more and more, until it was no longer a struggle to make out what he was saying. And it was no longer a struggle, either, to hear the cruel undertone of contempt and a wickedness she had not heard in his voice for three years. The sound of it made her shudder.

“If all goes well, Nigel, then he will soon be only a problem of the past.”

_______

_And then I start to feel the walls as they crumble and fall  
And the darkness that I know has a spark and a glow  
Now I'm reaching out with arms that are learning to grow  
And I'm finally letting go._

_________

On the other side of the castle, atop a balcony like hers that overlooked the kingdom, there stood a boy. He was tired and battle-worn and scarred. But he was free.

And he was happy.

It had been three weeks since the explosion. Since he had been thrust into the throes of a suffering he had never before known was possible. Three weeks of unimaginable torture at the hands of Death.

It had been three days since Death’s defeat. Since Varian had turned the demon’s own blade against him to finally free himself from his claws. Three days since he had won the battle only to be told by the moon there was more to come.

And now he had only a few days left to figure out how to save Corona from her own ashes.

He had been standing there for a couple hours now, lost in thought as the warm winds drifted in off the sea, circling around him in a dance of echoing cheer and laughter.

It was comforting.

The voice in his mind that sounded so eerily like Death still spoke from time to time, but it was quieter. It was getting easier to ignore. The voice may never truly go away— _he_ may never truly go away. His words and jeers and cruel lies...they still echoed in his core with the question of truth. In the darkness of the coming night or in the silence of empty corridors, he still saw flashes of a cloaked figure—of glistening claws and gleaming teeth that lingered in the shadows. Varian would always have his demons to fight, but now he was willing to fight them.

Because, now, he understood his worth. He understood his place in this world: a friend, a brother, a son. He had people who cared endlessly for him.

He was wanted.

Despite his mistakes, despite his darkness and brokenness, he was wanted.

And he thought that was, perhaps, the most beautiful thing.

There would still be battles to come. _Zhan Tiri—Cassandra—_ He knew this war was not yet finished. And he knew the others did, too. It was coming, _they_ were coming. For Corona and for them all.

And it would take all of them—it would take relentless support and steadfast will to break through the barriers of defeat and claim their victory, but they would do it. He was sure of that.

Because if they didn’t— _if they lost…_

This suffering he had endured—the words from the moon—they weren't all for _nothing_. _No_ , they would win this final fight.

No matter what the cost.

The clouds that ambled across the sky shifted momentarily, allowing a blazing streak of golden sunlight to race across the sky in a mad sprint for a jovial chance to be free, like him.

_The sun._

The moon may have come for him in a time of need, but he supposed the sun had always been there for him, even when he couldn't see it. In a deadly blizzard, it had been sturdy arms and woeful cries when his eyes had been crippled by visions of amber. In the dark of night, lost in the sound of screeching metal and angered shouts, it had been the gentle voice pleading for his return to the light. Pleading he stopped his trek into darkness before it was too late to turn back. In a barren prison cell, it had been a tender smile and magnanimous green eyes welcoming him back into her warm embrace. And in the shadows of despair, as the world raged around him with words of torture and hatred, it had been the voice of truth—the voice of love—of pure, undivided love for himself when everything inside of him was telling him to give up.

She had been the voice asking he go on.

And so, beneath the watchful eyes and rays of the setting sun sending streaks of fiery red bursting across the sky in an unmatched display of rejuvenated life, Varian smiled.

Red.

He thought he quite liked that color, now.

It was the color of the heart—of its blood—of its pain and its love. It was the color of his brokenness being stitched back together again. Perhaps he would never truly be whole. Perhaps he had never been.

Was anyone, really?

He found he didn't mind being broken anymore. To be broken—it didn't make him anything less. He could be broken and loved at once.

And he quite liked that.

_______

_Far from the world that I made  
I keep running from the lies that would drive me insane  
I was always holding on to the anger and pain  
But I'm finally letting go  
Now I'm finally letting go.  
  
(dotan - letting go)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read. 
> 
> Well, we’ve done it. We’ve made it to the end. That is until the sequel comes out. :)
> 
> I want to thank you all for allowing me to take this journey with you. It was once such a dream of mine to write—you gave me a taste of that dream! And it was glorious. 
> 
> I think I will always carry a love for writing, for storytelling. This place has given me somewhere where I can be that young girl who once wanted that dream more than anything. Even if that is no longer what my path holds, it will be a part of me. So thank you. 
> 
> That being said, I have such hopes for what’s next. There’s so much left to explore here and I can't wait for you to see where it goes! I will be following up soon with the details. In the meantime, please feel free to leave comments with any residual questions you feel have thus gone unanswered. I set up a lot for future exploration throughout the series, but I might not have all of it planned for addressing simply because, as the writer, I understand details that may not have actually been explained to the readers. Please let me know what to pay attention to as I continue wrapping up loose ends as we progress.
> 
> As always...
> 
> Stay tuned! 💕


	16. Sequel Information.

Hey y'all!

(okay actually i wanted to update this with some artwork i'm working on for chapter 15 before the sequel info but who knows when i'll finish it so let's just do this part now)

So I didn't think this was going to happen at first. When I was writing this story and planning out the end, I had thought “This is a good ending. There’s nowhere else for this to go.” I didn't want to see the story end, but I was satisfied. BUT, as you surely know by now, it’s not over! So here’s to making an _official_ official sequel announcement. Oh...and also a series announcement while we’re at it.

**Book 2: Where the Mind Falls**

Sixteen years ago, the moon had saved him. She had given him life. He had never known why.

Now, when the forces of light and dark threaten to bring Corona to its knees, only Varian can end it once and for all. But he doesn’t feel so sure—he has no weapons, no power.

All he has is a precious knowledge of self-destruction.

**Book 3: Bones that Build an Empire**

Something sinister lurks in the darkness—plotting and preparing for the hunt. But this time, Varian’s enemies are physical. This time, they can touch him. They can make him _bleed_.

But Varian has learned to love the color red.

**Epilogue: Gently Lead this Body Home**

Summary: NONE CAUSE SPOILERS >:)

When the first chapter comes out for book 2, I will post an update here, so be sure to subscribe now/stay subscribed so you don't miss any of the action! Or feel free to give me a follow on tumblr @ allthestarsandi.tumblr.com! I will likely post new info there throughout the planning and writing process.

I just want to end with one last major THANK YOU for reading and supporting me along the way. I love and appreciate all of you. This has been so marvelous and so much fun. I absolutely love this story, I loved sharing it with you and hearing all your wonderful thoughts, and I can’t wait to keep creating.

Until the next journey.

(stay tuned!)


	17. Chapter 1 of Where the Mind Falls NOW AVAILABLE

Hey everyone!

So the time has come, at last! Chapter 1 of  _ Where the Mind Falls  _ is going up RIGHT NOW! (I am transferring it from my drive to ao3 as i speak)

If it’s not there when you check, give me 5 minutes. If it’s still not there, give me 5 more 

(also, keep an eye out for an art update in chapter 15 of this fic that will eventually be finished when i feel the motivation to do so lol)

thank you for all your support with this story. it means so much to me. hope to see you in the sequel!

  
  



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